


A Marriage of Inconvenience

by deathofaraven



Series: Shattered Albion [2]
Category: Fable (Video Games), Fable 3 (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Canon Compliant, F/M, Half of the time it's like "I hate you", I'm Not Quite Sure How to Tag This, Mild BDSM themes, Multi, Slow Burn, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, and the other half of the time it's like "I want to sleep with you", atypical romance?, but most of the time it's like "leave me alone I'm busy with my revolution"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-07-20 02:47:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 124,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7387435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathofaraven/pseuds/deathofaraven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Revolution and hardship have come to Albion, plunging the already suffering nation further into turmoil. Despite his best efforts, the rebellion has taken a toll on Logan, tyrant king of Albion, and the discovery of his younger sister’s involvement with the rebels has only furtherly salted the wound. In an effort to both save his sister and keep her from interfering further, King Logan enacts a decades old contract that will shift the balance of power in the country and set forth a dangerous power play into motion. But who shall be the victor: the deviant tycoon whose motivations and past are a mystery, the princess for whom life is a constant battle between her head and her heart, or the king himself…who may not be as monstrous as the people of Albion have been led to believe? There’s nothing like unintended romance to throw the best laid plans off their due course.</p>
<p>But something is stirring off the coast of Albion. A darkness is coming, and now...there is no Hero to stop it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Contract

It was of common opinion that the royal gardens, which usually surrounded Bowerstone Castle in a peaceful sea of green, were truly eerie at night. Fog cloaked everything; turning the plants into lurking creatures and making even the most normal of statues appear suspicious. The city of Bowerstone, and its many ports, lay hidden behind a shimmering veil of murky white that seemed to have bathed the castle in silence.

_Silence._

Several of the castle's guards shifted uncomfortably. This sudden, strange quiet didn't sit well with them; they couldn't fathom what _exactly_ it meant. Add in the broken window of the Princess's chambers, and the lack of guards by her door, and "uncomfortable" didn't even begin to cover how they felt. After all…what if something had happened? What if the Princess was _dead?_

She wasn't.

High above the streets of Bowerstone, a lone tower's windows shone with a dull golden light. The tower itself was an oddity, rising up impossibly high and only accessible through the fragile-looking ivory-stoned bridge connecting it to the castle proper. Though it was older than even the most aged of those living in Bowerstone, dating back to before even the Fairfax family owned the property, and it still looked nigh impenetrable. And, yet, it was here that a young woman, barely the age of twenty, could be found. The Princess was worse for wear; her pale, calloused fingers traced a symbol carved into the stone floor with cracked nails. Her brown hair, scraggly from a lack of proper care, cascaded over her shoulders to brush her waist. Despite her youth, her eyes were haunted with memories of things better not seen.

She hated it here. The time she had spent imprisoned felt unending. The empty, torturous days, the bleak eternity of night—both were laid bare before her and Victoria was convinced that soon she would lose her mind.

If she hadn't lost it already.

Hence the window incident (as she was sure it would later be referred to). Truth be told, she hadn't _actually_ intended to throw herself out a window. All she'd wanted to do was escape, and so, when all other means had failed, she'd used one of the tools beside her fireplace to break the window, climbed out onto the ledge…and then her foot had slipped on the rain-slick stone and she'd fallen right onto the glass-littered bushes and wisteria vines below. Well, she'd never said it was a _foolproof_ plan. It was a couple hours later that a gardener had discovered her, fractured bones and all, and she honestly felt for the poor man—if _that_ hadn't been mind-scarring, she didn't know what was.

The Princess sighed, her fingers momentarily stopping in the midst of their tracing. She glanced around the room almost suspiciously, as though she expected something to be lying in wait to take advantage of her situation. Victoria wasn't certain, but she thought the round-walled room had once been a study. Bookcases lined the walls, crafted to fit the curve of the walls, and a stained-glass window rose up gloriously beside her. However, the comfortable-looking leather armchair and solid oak desk, like the small iron-framed bed, were bolted down, and the dust-cloaked bookcases were empty, ruining the illusion of peaceful seclusion.

Victoria shot the heavy, re-enforced doors a dark look. Those helped ruin it, too, seeing as she had yet to find a way to open them. _Bloody doors._

Her expression shifted to somewhere between thoughtful and disinterested as she turned back to the window. Her fingers resumed their tracing. The Princess attempted to see through some of the lighter panes of glass, but failed since the fog and the darkness obstructed her view of both the sea and of Bowerstone. A memory came to mind and, instantly, guilt clawed at her gut. It was all her fault. She remembered it all with the clarity of a much-feared nightmare. Major Swift standing before Logan and the crowd, another soldier's gun to his head. Ben's expression a mix of horror and fury. He'd restrained himself, and she…well, she couldn't just _let_ the Major _die_. She'd tried to stop the execution. And then there was no way for them to escape; or, at least, not without a lot of people getting hurt.

Poor Ben…it wasn't fair of her to get him caught with her. She wasn't sure she believed her brother that Ben was fine and merely incarcerated. She wanted _proof_. Better yet, she wanted him _free_. She wanted to know what happened to Page and Walter. Had they come after them? Were they free or were they as captive as she was? Did they know Swift was dead? Was the revolution continuing? Was all her worry for nothing?

Frustrated, Victoria rested her forehead against the cool glass, clutching her arms about herself. What a vicious cycle this was. And, thinking only of her tattered alliance, all she wanted was a way out.

~ * ~

Logan paced the war room, the flickering light of the fireplace across the room his only companion. He'd been doing that a lot lately, using the pacing to coax his mind into a higher gear if only so he could think faster for a brief second. He felt like he was missing something; a rubbish notion, he knew, for _Kings_ did _not_ simply _miss things_. But still…something was off.

Two issues dominating the forefront of his mind, he turned, walking past his map table, out of the war room, and into the study.

Answers, Logan knew, could sometimes be found in his father's journals when he could not find them himself. Granted, the likelihood of him finding both a way to get his sister safely away from the mess that currently was Bowerstone (and the remnants of the rebels that still hid there) _and_ to save Albion from a creature that none of its other inhabitants even knew was coming was slim to none. Going through his desk in search of the aforementioned volumes, he knew he would need nothing short of a miracle. But he was a _King_ , for Avo's sake, and he'd be _damned_ if he let his worry _show_.

Finding a journal he'd not yet gone through, he flipped it open and began reading. Sparrow's writings were very…odd. There was neither rhyme nor reason to the way the entries were made; one entry would be business-like, the next comical, as if Sparrow had simply opened the journal to a random page and wrote down the first thing on his mind. Even when Logan employed all of his concentration, this made for difficult study as Logan tried to match dates with those of conflicts he'd learned of. Despite the fact that the journal appeared to be from his father's early years as a King, when there had been the most and _only_ violent conflict under Sparrow's reign, there was very little mention of war or battles. It was strange to say the least.

Then, just as Logan was beginning to consider switching journals or hunting down old militial schematics, a strange phrase caught his eye. " _A deal with Heroes"?_

He brought the book closer and looked to the beginning of a section of carefully written text that filled most of the small page with black ink. _Words cannot describe how frustrated I now am at being right,_ Logan read. _While I, thankfully, didn't underestimate the other's choices, I'm finding I'm nearly out of ways to repay them for the bloody Spire 'incident'. Two of the contracts have been resolved, but the third is being…_ obstinate. _I wonder now if this was_ really _that good of an idea. Who ever knew making deals with Heroes could be so difficult?_

A few numbers followed the paragraph and Logan recognized them as reference numbers. The rest of the entry was entirely unrelated, and, after realizing such, Logan laid the journal down on his desk and closed it. Logan traced the edge of the journal thoughtfully. He wondered what his father had meant.

Of course nearly everyone had heard of what had transpired between Sparrow and Lucien in the Spire (despite the fact that so very little was known about the other Heroes involved), but the rest…what was all this talk of contracts and choices? How could a contract be obstinate? Though his mind encouraged him to return to the truly pressing matters at hand, curiosity, it seemed, was indeed his family's curse. Rising from his chair, Logan made his way over to a cabinet full of his father's old papers.

The folder in question was astoundingly thin and sandwiched between an incredibly thick folder on Faraday/Reaver Industries and an only slightly smaller one on Oakfield trade. It was almost painfully obvious which saw the most use. Carefully, so as not to disturb the order of the other files, Logan removed the one he'd come for and began flipping through them with a mixture of intrigue and blatant curiosity.

There were a surprisingly small number of documents within the folder, he noted, removing the various papers and spreading them across the desktop. The contracts in question were the first three documents. The first two bore red wax seals, denoting their completion; the third, however, did _not_. Logan supposed that _that_ had been the troublesome one. Logan read it over with great interest, finding that it was between "Sparrow of Bowerstone and Reaver of Bloodstone".

Reaver's name caught him up for a second as he wondered if it was the same man with whom he'd been recently conducting business. Then he decided that had been a rather ridiculous question. After all, how many people out there had Reaver's name? It wasn't something most _mummies_ and _daddies_ would call their sweet, _innocent_ little ones. Granted…the fact that it was the same man was odd; the industrialist didn't exactly look old enough….

But, alas, he digressed.

Logan's eyes narrowed the further along he read. His mind whirled into thought. An idea was creeping up on him with all the subtlety of a flaming hobbe; it was something bold and, most likely, would be exceedingly controversial. The King placed the contract down before him, pondering it as though it were some great work of literature. To follow through would cause (even more) scandal, but it would probably be a large enough shock to distract a good percentage of Albion while he prepared. And it would keep his sister occupied, as well as a good deal safer than any other plan he'd thought of previously.

Well…that settled it, then.

Drawing out some heavy parchment and a fountain pen, Logan began to think of how to word everything. Somehow…he had the satisfactory feeling that his _request_ would be well embraced. No one would _ever_ dare refuse the King of Albion. All he needed was a simple "yes" and things could move forward in no time at all.

_One down; one to go._ Things were looking up.

Of course, that was usually when the floor fell out from beneath someone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this out of spite. Mainly for my friends. Blame them. It's been on FFN and a couple other sites for a while, but a few people suggested I post it here, so...I hope you like it.  
> (Maybe this will motivate me to finally finish the sequel....)


	2. The Ball

Even as a child, Victoria had never been one for parties. It was not some random dislike that had simply popped into her head, but one that had slowly built up after years and years of seeing ladies in pretty dresses and gentlemen in fancy suits (and both with too much makeup) as a young girl. Her displeasure had continued to grow over the years, strengthening into a mild abhorrence when, at the age of sixteen, a young man named Percy had, upon hearing rumours about the Princess running away from the castle earlier in the year, attempted to _bed_ her. (In her opinion, Percy had gotten away lucky; though Elliot had given him a black eye and Victoria had broken his jaw, if either of them had told Logan…Percy probably wouldn’t still be alive.) However, her absolute final straw when it came to parties was most definitely the last she’d been to. What had started off as an attempted rescue mission had, quite suddenly, become a massacre as well as an attempt on the lives of both her and the Bowerstone Resistance’s leader, Page. As such, the Princess had completely sworn them off. But it wasn’t exactly like she had a _choice_ this time.

Three days previous, though it felt like a lifetime ago, Logan had come to see her in her tower room. Once the faux-pleasantries, awkward one-sided small talk, and Victoria’s furious pleas for her and Ben’s release were over and done with, he’d calmly, almost emotionlessly, informed her that he was having a “minor” party and she most certainly _would_ be attending. Curious, she’d attempted to press Logan for more information but was shot down with oddly avoidant talk about it being a  “political matter” and that she ought to “keep in mind what might happen to Captain Finn” in the event of Victoria turning on him. Eventually, Victoria yielded and stopped asking questions. However, despite relenting and agreeing that she would be somewhat agreeable, Victoria refused to give her brother the final word and began to nonverbally voice her... _displeasure_ with current events. She refused to eat more than a couple bites of her meals, refused to sleep for very long, and refused to speak to the guards who came to check on her. She was well aware that it was an _extremely_ childish tactic, but, at that moment, she really could care less. At least she was getting her point across.

Granted, the lack of doing anything meant she had extra time to dwell on Logan’s little party. The fact that it “happened” to fall on the anniversary of Lucien’s defeat in the Spire was not lost on her. It was…surprisingly egotistical of Logan. Their mother, cold-hearted as she had been, would have approved.

And so Victoria condemned herself to pacing her circular prison and plotting. Her hands knotted as she worried her lip, trying to think of a way, _any_ way, that she could rescue Ben and escape with him. Her mind whirled round and round, much like her pacing, but every idea she came up with had too great of a chance that it would end in tragedy. Too much risk and too large of a chance that something would happen to work against her plan. The Princess couldn’t help but feel very, very trapped at that moment. And painfully alone.

So she decided she would play along.

For now.

The day of the ball had gone oddly smoothly in her opinion; as though it were some routine they had practiced hundreds of times before. That afternoon, a pair of Logan’s Honour Guard escorted her into a spare bedroom within the castle proper and she had allowed them to without a fuss. A part of her mind—a part she usually kept suppressed—had longed to gather her Will and strike down the men before making another bid for freedom. Before she could properly talk herself into trying it, however, Ben’s face came to mind and she continued along with the guards compliantly. Not that she could have actually accomplished any spells, had she tried. She wasn’t completely certain if she could even _use_ Will without her gauntlets—she’d never before had a reason to try.

Once they’d reached their destination and she had been left alone with a nervous maid, she had then allowed herself to be subjected to the most extensive bit of grooming in her young life. Her hair had been washed, brushed, and styled, her skin had been scrubbed until it felt tender—she almost felt like a doll playing dress up at the overzealousness of it all. Not that Jasper, her valet and butler, hadn’t kept her looking like a Princess was expected to, even for a battle, but Victoria’s tendency to get into _everything_ meant she didn’t stay that way for long.

Victoria frowned to herself as she remembered the way the maid who’d helped her dress had flinched every time she looked at her. The Princess knew it was _possible_ it was simply nerves, but she had the feeling it was...something _else_. She moved as if to touch her face then stopped herself, irately balling her fists in the violet satin of her dress for feeling so petty. What did it matter what the maid thought of her? Her irritation turned to surprise as the door opened and a cheerful bark reached her ears.

“Nero!” she gasped, whirling around and dropping to the floor to meet him in a hug as a surge of happiness coursed through her.

The black and white collie gave her a look of adoration no human could ever hope to emulate as she scratched his ears. She’d worried horribly for her poor dog since her royal screw up (no pun intended), thinking he had ran off and was now starving on the streets, or far worse, if that were possible, that he had ended up dead. Seeing Nero alive and well made Victoria feel more grounded; she could face anything with her dog at her side.

And then she looked up and realised that her brother had entered the room as well and any bit of good cheer she’d found evaporated on the spot.

“Logan,” she said tersely, her fingers weaving through her dog’s fur in a comforting motion, though whether it was intended to comfort her or Nero was entirely up to debate.

“Sister, we need to speak,” he replied with equal coolness, finally closing the door and seating himself in an armchair.

Victoria frowned, not moving from her spot on the floor. She eyed her elder brother critically. Despite the formal violet, gold, and silver of his attire and his brown hair in its usual slicked-back style, something seemed _wrong_ with him. His dark eyes were pinched and held heavy bags. He was too pale. Too thoughtful looking. _He’s up to something,_ she thought. _Be on your guard._ “I didn’t realise we had anything more to say to each other.”

 _Nor is there_ anything _I_ want _to talk to_ you _about._ The unspoken words hung in the air between them, so clear they were nearly visible.

Logan’s annoyance was well hidden and he simply pretended his sister had not spoken at all. “I trust I needn’t remind you of how you will be expected to behave; nor of the consequences of your actions should you choose to act-out.”

Ire burned in Victoria’s gut and pulsed through her veins. She clenched her teeth to keep from launching into a full-blown rage. “You’re right. You _don’t._ ”

“Good. Then I’ve no need to be concerned about punishing you for acting like an errant child.”

“ _Don’t you threaten me, Logan._ I am _not_ a child, despite your lack of notice.”

“Really? Then what was your attempted revolution if not a _child’s_ rebellion?”

“Avo save you, Logan, you really think this entire ordeal is about some idiotic revenge?!” Victoria all but yelled.

Nero whimpered in the silence that followed his mistress’s outburst. He shifted his weight on his front paws, muscles trembling with anxiety. Though the humans in the room had, for the most part, forgotten about him, he was still falling prey to their rising emotions.

“I realise,” Victoria began again, working to control her voice, “that what I’ve done has labelled me a threat, but I’m not a fool, _brother_. You’ve taken everything I’ve ever cared for from me. Ben’s _life_ depends on my compliance. Do you really think I’ll give him up, too? I’ll do what you want, Logan. I’ll play your games and pretend my brother isn’t a bully that must hide behind threats and harsh judgments. And, if I continue to do so, what more can you _possibly_ do to me?”

She searched her brother’s face, hoping for even the smallest sign that her words had had any effect on him, only to feel a crushing wave of disappointment as his expression failed to change. Her words, it seemed, had all the effect of water rolling off a duck’s feathers. Well, that was depressing. So much for appealing to his better nature.

“We are understood then, sister?”

The Princess looked down at the rug, stroking Nero to calm herself. “Completely.”

She heard Logan get to his feet; his soft, measured footsteps made their way to the door. The click of the latch echoed through the uncomfortably silent room. The door opened but Logan didn’t leave.

“All I ask, Victoria,” he murmured, “is that you keep playing along.”

Victoria stared, wondering why he felt the need to say so. Did he want the last word? Or was there _more_ to the night than he was letting on?

She never got to ask. Before she could begin to form a retort, the door had closed behind him. Logan was gone.

~ * ~

The chatter of nobles was overly loud and echoed through the room in a manner that reminded Victoria of a group of over-excited chickens. She would know; the Princess had saved a flock of chickens from a grisly death-by-pie-maker before, and she _knew_ how loud they were. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes or slouch in her chair. The seat was the very same one her mother had sat upon when both the King and Queen of Albion had been required at court—a smaller, slightly less ornate version of her father’s, and now Logan’s, throne. Feelings about Albion’s current state aside, and though she had never gotten along with her mother, she wanted to do well by her memory in front of all these...um, two-faced, backstabbing fools was a little harsh, wasn’t it? Plus, what was left of her bruised and battered pride wouldn’t allow her to sit in any manner other than was proper. And so she sat. And waited.

Nero lay asleep at her feet and Victoria would have loved to join him. Sleep sounded lovely.

Everyone was waiting for Logan. He was expected to make a speech before the “festivities” could begin. The Princess tried to mentally hurry him along (not that it helped any). She felt like some of the nobles who had been eyeing her since her arrival were vultures or wolves stalking about, waiting for the kill. The mental image of nobles turning into wolves brought a chill to her skin. The sooner this ball was over the better; and the sooner she might have a chance to talk her brother into letting her have a chat with Ben.

Fat chance of that happening, though, so she wasn’t getting her hopes up.

The throne room’s grand, ornate doors opened and Logan entered to a round of polite applause from the nobility. Straight-backed and proud, the King approached his throne. Logan’s eyes fell on his sister and she stared emotionlessly back. Once, she had been one of his biggest supporters, and now, for all the reaction she had towards him, she could have been dead.

“People of Albion,” Logan began when he’d reached the thrones and turned to face the assembled crowd, “lend me your ears. We live in dire times and the threat from within Albion itself could not be greater.”

Victoria abruptly turned her gaze from him and attempted to tune him out. _What rubbish_. She _refused_ to sit there and listen to him spout nonsense. The only thing keeping her from leaving being Ben, the Princess simply tried to ignore her brother as she pretended to be the good, supportive sister she used to be. When her brother hadn’t acted a tyrant, that is.

Still, she wasn’t as good at ignoring people as she would have liked (rather like her father had been, actually), and she was without distraction, and so she ended up hearing the entire speech, anyway.

“I have heard your concerns and I urge you not to listen to those who would defame me: I am working to ease them. You have sent many pleas for aid against the beasts that roam our land—as we speak, my soldiers are scouring the land, doing everything in their power to eradicate the growing numbers of _all_ the fiends that would seek harm against you.”

Victoria mentally frowned and struggled to keep the expression off her face. _You’re listening to the concerns of your people, are you, Logan?_ she thought with a hint of cynicism. While she could not deny that the number of creatures (dark or otherwise) in Albion had escalated a rather lot lately—as had the number of bandits—the fact that Logan thought listening to the nobility counted as listening to _all_ of his subjects stung. _You’ve forgotten about the ones that_ actually _matter_.

“As to your concerns about the so-called ‘Bowerstone Resistance’,” Logan continued, unaware of his sister’s mental tirade, “I ask you to pay them no heed. I have received word this very morning that my guard is close to disbanding this group of anarchists and delivering them unto their deserved fate.”

Victoria grit her teeth to keep from screaming at him as she glared at his profile. _How dare you, brother?!_ she fumed. _They’ve done more for Bowerstone in the past few months than you’ve done in the last four years! You’ve abandoned them! What else can they do but fight to survive?_

And yet, in a way, she understood why he said it. It was all designed to keep the ignorant nobles calm and to keep himself on the throne long enough to get the situation of the rebels under control. But the kind of bootlicking being displayed by the aforementioned nobles in response was making her nauseous. Victoria didn’t have a doubt that Logan could have told them anything—that the sky was purple and the world being a triangle, for instance—and they would have just eaten it up and chorused their agreement.

As though he could hear her thoughts, Logan glanced toward her and Victoria had the sickening sensation that he was speaking directly to her as he said: “I swear to you, traitors and lunatics like this Page will no longer pose a threat to either you or your livelihood. Let this be a lesson to all those that would oppose us: we will stand firm against them and we will not let their attempts to terrorize Albion continue.”

Their eyes met and Victoria could feel her heart pounding in her ears. For a moment, the world melted away and it felt like it was just the two of them, standing on opposite ends of a battleground, both prepared to fight to the death. And then the sound of applause rose up from the nobility, rousing them both, and Victoria tried to calm herself as Logan turned back towards his audience. _It’s already over? That was fast._

“On a lighter note,” her brother added.

 _You just_ had _to think it,_ she thought to herself, noting something was suspiciously off with Logan’s tone. It was a bit hesitant and a little _too_ forcibly lofty for her liking and Victoria felt her gut twist nervously.

Not being privy to his sister’s thoughts, Logan continued on, “I wish to announce the engagement of my sister and our head of Industry here in Bowerstone. Though Reaver, unfortunately, was _detained_ on business, I trust you will give them both your warmest regards.”

_What the...?_

It took a moment before applause rose up once more, awkward and false as it rang through the stunned crowd, seemingly struck by the same sense of disbelief that was crashing through Victoria. Though it took a while for her mind to stop whirling, it took even longer for Logan to meet his sister’s eyes. Victoria simply stared, horrified, at him. What the _hell_ had he just gotten her into?


	3. Throwing Stones

“Can I _talk_ to you?” Victoria hissed, attempting to catch her brother’s ear as he finally moved away from the person he’d previously been conversing with. “ _Now,_ Logan.”

The ball had begun ages ago—or so it felt like—and it was only just now that the Princess was getting a chance to ask for a private word. She was glad no one had attempted to give her congratulations, thus far. Avo knew she would have probably snapped and gone off on the entire room; her anger was great enough for her to do so and she cursed the fact that her brother hadn’t spoken to her about this beforehand. Not that she would have been any less angry about it then, but at least she might have been able to feign calm and, perhaps, would have been able to pretend to go along with… _this_ a bit better.

“I thought there was nothing left for us to say to one another, _sister_ ,” Logan murmured in reply, taking care not to let those nearest to them be successful in their obvious attempt at eavesdropping.

“Oh, I’ve plenty of things to say to you, Logan.”

“Might they, possibly, wait?”

“No.” Of _course_ Victoria could _try_ to wait, but she wanted to talk _now_ lest some poor fool accidentally push her into making a scene...which she seemed to recall Logan explicitly telling her _not_ to do. As much as complaining appealed to her, the mental image of Ben, cold and life-less on the ground, brought out her civil side.

With an exasperated sigh, Logan turned and beckoned her to follow him from the room. They edged out of the room and into the hall, walking in near perfect silence; the music and chatter from the ball easily masked their tension. While Victoria seethed, mentally raging at the world around her, Logan used the time to think. Neither of them was good at communication, and, as such, neither of them had a good feeling about the coming conversation.

Thick rugs muffled their footsteps as they moved through the halls and the sounds of the ball slowly dulled to a faint murmur, humming like the flurry of background thoughts that pushed against Victoria’s skull. Finally, they reached the study. Victoria swept into the dimly lit room, barely containing her emotions. Logan kept up his calm façade even as he closed and locked the door behind them.

“I will _not_ marry that man!” the Princess exploded as soon as the lock clicked in the door. Logan sighed, but Victoria continued on before he could speak. “No! No, I’m being serious. You _cannot_ make me do this. Logan, he’s vile; a poison. Everything he touches turns to flame or crumbles to dust. I’ve seen it! And I’ve _seen_ what Industrial has become under his control. No matter the cost, Logan, I—I despise him. I _can’t_ marry Reaver.”

“You can, and you will. It was father’s wishes.”

“...what?” was Victoria’s only, extremely confused, reply.

“And, should you refuse to,” Logan continued heedlessly on, “the traitor will die.”

The Princess waved the statement off. “What do you mean ‘our father’s wishes’? Father would _never_ have agreed to something like this.”

“He did,” her brother replied laconically, his tone flat.

Victoria’s brown eyes followed him to his desk, watching as he removed a sheaf of paper from a drawer and held it out to her. The Princess hesitated, unsure if she truly wanted to see what was written there. After a moment, she took it; feeling her heart break and her gut clench as her fears were confirmed by her father’s smooth but almost inelegant scrawl.

“You were too young before father died,” Logan was saying, though Victoria barely heard him, “but I know he would have enforced it. Father never made promises lightly.”

“How do we know this isn’t a forgery?”

“I had it validated.”

Victoria gritted her teeth. There was no need to ask by _whom_ he’d had it validated.

“Will you consent to it?”

The words left her brother’s lips and she looked away from him to glare holes into the rug. Her stomach kept flip-flopping and she had to struggle not to wrap her arms around herself—one of the last people she wanted to look weak in front of was Logan. However, despite that, there was yet another problem to consider: Victoria had never before given her word without meaning it. She wasn’t well versed in trickery. Like her father before her, Victoria was truthful to a fault most times. So, what it really came down to was this: could she sell her soul to Reaver to keep Ben safe for just a little longer, or could she not? How much was her honour, integrity, and pride really worth? How far could she go for justice? For freedom? _No distance is too great_. She looked up at her brother, and, for the first time in her memory, lied. “Yes.”

Logan’s relief was nearly palpable, as though almost every weight he’d ever carried was falling off his shoulders. “Mother and father would be proud of you.”

Victoria shot him a dark look as she dropped the contract down upon the desk. She left without a word. _Funny, brother. I think they’d be disgusted with you._

~ * ~

“I can’t _believe_ it.”

“I don’t think anyone can, love.”

“I mean,” the red-haired girl went on enviously, “what does he see in her? She’s not even _pretty_.”

“Sarah!” her dark-skinned companion chastised, trying and failing to hide her giggles.

“Bea, I’m _serious_. She’s _not_ ; maybe before, but not with that horrid _scar_ ,” she dropped her voice to a scandalized whisper. “She looks like some sort of _heathen_.”

The pair glanced around conspiratorially before the one named Bea whispered, “Don’t be too hard, luvvie. She’s just a girl.”

“...What ever are you talking about?”

“She’s _just_ a _girl_ ,” the woman repeated significantly, her expression turning catty when she saw her companion understood. “She can’t handle him like we can. She won’t keep him occupied long. And when she’s out....”

“We’re back in.” There was a dramatic sigh, before, “What a terrible bore to have to wait so long, though.”

“A terrible bore, indeed,” a new voice said flatly, her tone bordering on icy and dripping with sarcasm.

The noble women’s eyes widened and they turned to find the object of their ridicule standing directly behind them. The Princess eyed them with distaste; her brown eyes narrowed but thoughtful, as if she were memorizing them. The aforementioned scar she bore stretched from just above her left eyebrow, across the bridge of her nose and right cheek, to just under her jaw line and it showed pale rose against the ivory of her skin; the noble women stared openly at it as though the scar was some horrific, still-bleeding gash, and the Princess’s lips twisted into a thin, annoyed line.

“Do you mind?” Victoria enquired coolly. “You’re blocking the doorway.”

She didn’t give the women time for false flattery, brushing past them as soon as there was space. Nero trotted dutifully along at her heels, panting.

The Princess shook her head as she exited the ballroom. To be perfectly honest, she wasn’t entirely surprised by anyone’s behaviour. The announcement had been a shock, and she’d been hearing odd snatches of such gossip all night. But it was still beginning to wear thin on what little of her patience she still possessed.

 _And where,_ she wondered, ignoring all the guards that were watching her with thinly veiled suspicion as she made her way down to the gardens, _exactly is Reaver?_ That question had been bugging her more and more the later it got without his appearance. She _highly_ doubted he’d _forgotten_ and the desire to hit the man—hard, and with something heavy…like a thesaurus—was steadily growing.

The mental image of a heavy book crashing into Reaver’s face kept a small smile on her lips all the way until she entered the garden.

The night sky was exceedingly clear after the rain and fog of the previous days—the heavens now a blue so dark it was nearly black, littered with diamond dust for stars. The scent of the sea and growing things was carried to her on the cool breeze as silvery moonlight kissed her skin. Her royal purple slippers barely made a sound as she crept slowly down a short set of stone steps.

She was well aware that some people—namely her butler, Jasper—found the castle gardens creepy at night, but Victoria had always loved them. The splash of water in the fountains was soothing and the view was unparalleled; it was one of the few places in the castle where one could actually hide from the continuous flow of people entering and leaving the grounds.

Edging toward the back of the gardens, the Princess trailed her hand along the pale stone of her parents’ mausoleum. The garden also brought back painful memories of Elliot. Poor, poor Elliot, whose only crime was that he cared for other people more than he’d cared for himself. Everything about him, from his brown hair to his round face to his kind smile, had radiated warmth. Elliot was warm where nothing else in Bowerstone was, one of the few sparks of compassion in an industrial wasteland, and, even though it shattered her heart in two, she had given him his dying wish: to save others instead of himself. She wondered where his family had buried him and how they were taking everything. She wondered if they hated her—her, their son’s executioner and best friend—or if they understood. Victoria pushed those morbid thoughts away, afraid of what might lie just beyond them; she’d come here to think and calm down, not to mourn, after all.

She rounded the mausoleum, pondering what to do about her current situation as she made her way towards the railing marking the end of the gardens—though Victoria had always suspected it was really more of a barrier to keep idiots from falling to their death in the street about ten stories below. She leaned against it with a thoughtful sigh, staring out at the city below. Bowerstone. From here it was covered in clouds of noxious fumes, rising wispily from countless chimneys; the dark silhouettes of houses looked spindly and foreboding, like sleeping beasts. Was anything there truly worth saving?

Movement out of the corner of her eye drew her attention back to her dog as Nero, tail wagging excitably at being outside once more, went to drink from one of the small reflection pools, which were really more like shallow ponds, nearby. Victoria wondered if he had the same feeling of wanderlust that she did; the need to _move_ and to do so _now_. But there was truly nowhere to go and so Victoria simply knelt down beside her dog, occasionally trailing her fingers through the cool water or picking up stones, and consigned herself, once more, to thinking. How was she going to get out of this?

“My, _my_ , Princess. What a _surprise_ this is; though, truly, a frown does not suit you.”

Victoria froze as the smug, sarcastic voice rolled over her like an unwanted caress. Her fist tightened around the rocks in her hand, some of the more jagged ones all but cutting into her palm, and her jaw clenched. _Speak of the devil_. Overcoming the sudden urge to maim something, she rose to her feet and turned to glare at Reaver in such a way that he would have been incinerated had there been any true power behind it. “ _You_.”

“Your powers of observation are _astounding_ , Highness,” Reaver quipped, not even bothering to hide the laugh in his voice.

He looked much the same as the last time Victoria had laid eyes on him—a demon in, and _of_ , the flesh. Dark hair falling into even darker eyes. His top hat perched jauntily on his head as his leather-gloved hands rested lazily atop his walking stick; he was leaning on it, the stick, the Princess noted, unsure _why_ that was nagging at her. Victoria’s desire to hit him was amplified as she realised he was smirking that damnable smirk at her; the one that suggested the entire universe was a joke and only he got the punch line. She _really_ hated that smirk.

“How _dare_ you?” Victoria managed after a second, her voice dipping lower in her ire. When Reaver only raised a questioning brow at her, she went on: “How dare you speak to me after what you’ve done to me?”

Reaver’s reply was mocking at best. “To _you?_ Imagine the havoc this little _ordalie_ will have on _my_ social life.”

Victoria’s temper reached its breaking point and the industrialist had to quickly step to the side as the infuriated Princess launched a rock at him.

“On _your_ life?!” Victoria threw another rock. “You’ve _ruined me!_ ” Another rock. “You’ve stolen any chance of freedom I had!” And another rock. “How can you be so full of yourself?!”  And yet _another_ rock was thrown.

“Sticks and stones, my dear. Now, if you’re done with all this childish arguing, I can think of much _better_ ways to fill you up.”

Victoria stared up at him, indignant and horror-struck. She was out of rocks now, and the look Reaver was giving her after his last statement made her slowly begin to back away. He followed, something predatory in his movements. Victoria felt like she was facing down some monster intent on ravaging her. The Princess was forced to halt, feeling the prickly branches of a hedge press against her back like a multitude of needles. She’d backed herself in a corner and Reaver was now much too close for her liking; her skirts brushed against his legs and she could feel his breath gently rustle her hair every time he exhaled. All she wanted was to annoy him into leaving her alone, as usually worked on the nuisances in her life, and Victoria spat the first thing that came to mind: “What could you _possibly_ be getting out of this that makes everything supposedly worth it?”

Reaver stopped short, head slightly tilted as if the question simultaneously amused and confused him and so it warranted more thought than he usually offered. Dark eyes half-lidded, he lazily looked her over as if she were some great treat. Victoria felt an involuntary flush rise in her cheeks as his eyes went from the delicate gold netting holding her hair up, to the low neckline of her dress’s bodice, and finally _lower_ , where the rich violet of her elaborate, bustled skirt faded into a deep midnight blue. She decided she hated that look more than his smirk. It scared her, if only because she didn’t know what it meant. She tried to turn away from him, wishing she could vanish and distance herself from the situation, but he caught her chin.

Meeting her eyes with a smouldering glance, he gave her a smile like poisoned honey. “Why, I get _you_ , of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mmm, Reaver and his grand entrances.


	4. Highway To Hell

Victoria had a hard time sleeping that night. Between her anger at Logan and her dread of what was to come (not to mention how much Reaver had unsettled her mind), she ended up tossing and turning most of the night. The following day was little better; it passed with almost agonizing slowness, minutes creeping into hours that felt like they stretched entire days. The only bright spot Victoria could see was that she was now allowed to freely walk through the castle’s halls (free…if she ignored all the guards that had been ordered to keep a close eye on her, of course), but, on the flip side, she had also been informed that she was to move in with _him_ —her dear, _dear fiancé—_ for a “courting period”. Whatever Logan had meant by that. She could _hardly_ wait; the suspense was killing her. Victoria briefly wondered if either of them would _survive_ the engagement.

That day she spent several hours watching one of the maids pack what little she wanted to bring with her, though her thoughts were more occupied with how to stop the wedding and save the Resistance. Her head felt like a group of tiny hobbes was running rampant throughout her skull, stamping their feet and screaming at the tops of their lungs. She rubbed at her temples to soothe her steadily growing headache, and tried to ignore the tiny voice in the back of her mind that was saying she was going to fail everyone she cared for. The thought brought a chill to her blood.

Despite her fears, she _did_ take comfort in the thought that Nero would be coming with her. She also took comfort in the thought of all the open roads between the castle and... _wherever_ she was going to be living with Reaver. Someone could easily get lost on those roads if they weren’t careful. They could simply _disappear_. Victoria was counting on it.

Instead of struggling with sleep, once again, Victoria remained awake that night, choosing to pace her chambers—which she’d been allowed back into from the tower after the ball, though the guard at her door had been doubled—until the sun began its slow ascent into the sky. Nero watched her with large, sad puppy eyes almost the entire time, occasionally wagging his tail tentatively at his mistress’s muttering. It was a clear mark of her anxiety that even the _dog_ felt it.

The dreaded day dawned with spotty sunlight; the sun hiding behind gloomy grey clouds like a lady behind a lace veil. Victoria dressed herself carefully, choosing comfort and mobility over any semblance of style: her corset was much looser than usual under her flowy, cream blouse, her fawn-coloured skirt barely fell to her knees, and her brown, knee high leather boots were without heels. Combined with the deep green cloak she’d set aside, she knew she would have some decent camouflage once she got into the country.

Still, a journey didn’t feel quite right without the comforting weight of her guild seal on her belt or her father’s “pouch-of-endless-junk”, as he had called it, dangling at her side. It felt even worse without her weapons. What she wouldn’t _do_ for a good weapon….

She chatted at Nero with forced cheer as she waited for the guards to collect her from her bower. Though collies weren’t very good conversationalists the loving looks he fixed her with, and the excited wagging of Nero’s tail, made her smile where everything else failed. She knew she must have seemed mad to anyone looking in on the scene—Victoria really didn’t want to begin thinking about how odd it was to have her only friend and ally, at this time, be a dog. He had her back and would rip out the throat of anyone who dared harm her; it didn’t matter what anyone else thought, that Nero was there for her was all Victoria needed to know.

Victoria had barely finished telling Nero that he was going to have to be calm and behave when the door to her chambers opened and then guards made their presence known. Though they looked similar enough in their royal colours, the guards were clearly as different as the night is from the day. One seemed apprehensive about being so cold towards the Princess, constantly shooting her nervous, borderline apologetic, glances as they led her through the castle’s labyrinthine hallways; the other obviously didn’t give a damn as long as he was getting paid and his gaze never wavered from the spot directly before him. As they escorted her into the castle’s foyer, a dark, rarely-witnessed side of the Princess unravelled in the depths of her mind and she considered exploiting the more nervous of the two guards. If she was careful, she could convince him to turn on his partner—to kill him, or, at the very least, render him unconscious for the moment—and, from there, she knew she would be able to have him secret her out of the castle. It would be easy, really. He was clearly a good, kind man and, if this revolution had taught her anything, it was that the good people of the world fell so much easier than the bad.

It was then that her moral side kicked into gear and shot the idea into dust. No, it was _wrong_ ; terrible. Doing so would make her no better than Reaver...or her brother. She was trying to _save_ people, after all, not enslave them. Besides, it was better to rely on herself. In the end, who else did she have to rely on but herself and her dog?

The sky was barely beginning to spit with rain as she stepped out of the castle, making her glad she’d slipped into her cloak before going out. Her brother was nowhere to be seen and he’d not previously wished her a safe journey. Reaver, however, _was_ waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs, standing confidently beside a carriage with all the pomp of a peacock. Victoria carefully made her way down the stairs, warily watching him watch her as she tried not to slip on the slick stone beneath her feet. She’d bet on the crown he was calculating something behind his devil-may-care attitude.

“Well, _hello_ , Your _Royal_ Highness.”

Reaver’s greeting caught her halfway down the stairs and she repressed the urge to shiver. Something about the way he said the words wasn’t... _right_. He made the sentence almost sensual, as if greeting her was truly the world’s greatest pleasure. It made her stomach clench and twist and…she was beginning to think this was an act he was keeping up just for her benefit. For his trouble, he received a bleak look in greeting. If she was honest, she hoped her lack of enthusiasm would keep him from wanting anything to do with her.

She doubted it, though; he’d probably just think she was more fun like this.

The businessman clicked his tongue as though he disapproved. “Now, Highness, what sort of behaviour is that for a _Princess?_ ...Though, considering your current wardrobe, it is _highly_ applicable, one might confuse you with a _monk_.” Smirk growing at the Princess’s indignant stare, he added, “Are you quite ready to go _home_ , then?”

Those last words sounded horribly like a prison sentence to her, and Victoria’s affront for her attire quickly turned to ire. She glared at him as though Reaver would truly care. _Wherever we are going is_ not _my home._ Victoria petulantly turned away from him to look at the carriage; she was surprised when she realised her guards had long since left her side, waiting stoically at the top of the stairs.

Quelling the sudden urge to run, she brushed past Reaver with an air of wanting to get something unpleasant over and done with. The carriage door was open and Nero, who’d been surprisingly quiet, hopped lightly in before his mistress. The dog settled down on one of the leather-cushioned benches as the Princess began to follow without very much grace. She froze upon noticing a hand was being offered to her. Victoria hesitated to take it, feeling Reaver’s eyes upon her. It was silly, they were both wearing gloves, after all, but she was afraid to touch him; it seemed…wrongly intimate, somehow.

And it felt almost like she was asking for help. She _loathed_ asking for help.

She hesitated a moment too long to appear nonchalant, but she accepted his hand, glancing briefly and confusedly at him before sitting beside her dog. This was going to be a _long_ day.

Nero rested his head on Victoria’s lap, silently asking for her to scratch his ears. She complied as Reaver, almost elegantly, pulled himself in and sat across from her.

“You’re not going to talk to me, are you,” Reaver observed, once again sounding amused. He wasn’t asking a question and so Victoria didn’t deign to look at him. “How droll. But you _will_ talk to me eventually, _ma chere_.”

Victoria took a breath to tell him to go blow himself to Skorm, and caught herself at the last second. She turned the unspoken words into an annoyed sigh and looked out the window. The carriage lurched into motion.

They rode in silence, the carriage gently rattling as they rolled over cobbled streets. As the sun began to rise higher in the sky, thoroughly hidden behind the heavy clouds that now leaked rain like an old roof, the large, gated manors that had lined the route to the castle gave way to bustling shops and smaller, quainter houses. Occasionally, as they progressed through Bowerstone, beggarly children (and sometimes adults) would run after their carriage in hopes of gold. Upon realizing to whom the carriage belonged to, those attempting to follow them promptly stopped; some staring after them with fear, others much more hateful, as the carriage rattled on.

Guilt swelled in the Princess’s gut. She felt _awful_. Had she been walking, or had the carriage been hers, she would have given them gold. Instead, the beggars had only walked away with a fear for their lives. That kind of fear did not belong on a child’s face, though it did bring the callousness of her companion into an even sharper, clearer light. He hadn’t even batted an eyelash at their plight, and that fact somehow made Reaver seem even less attractive to her than before.

Victoria closed her eyes. _No. Don’t get angry_. She’d lose any chance for an opportunity at running if she snapped now. Wanting justice was one thing, acting on foolishness, she had learned, was quite another. Needing a distraction, she turned to the book she’d brought with her for that exact purpose and attempted to lose herself within the pages.

She pretended she didn’t know she was being carefully watched.

The roads began to wear off as they ventured out of the city, and, soon enough, the rocking of the carriage turned to bumping. The buildings they passed grew scarcer and scarcer until they found themselves upon open road. Trees began to pop up sporadically along the path; the grasses growing longer and the delicate, ornamental garden flowers of the city were replaced by larger, rougher wild flowers. The rain had halted, and, the further they travelled into the country, the sun graced them more and more with its presence.

Reaver would never admit it, but he was uncomfortable with the silence. Silence simultaneously bored him and put him on edge. And they had been silent for over _four hours_. Of course, he _knew_ she was doing this on purpose, and he knew why: she wanted him to feel both guilty for this _arrangement_ and insignificant, as though he were not _worthy_ of speaking to her—it was the same sort of derision he felt towards peasants that tried to approach him on the street.

Not that it was really working, but still...a good show on her part.

But Reaver did have to admit, he _was_ an _extremely_ social creature; conversation was as important as food or air for him. The Princess ignoring him was tantamount to starving or strangling him. Ah...metaphorically, of course.

So he contented himself to watching her. The sun brought out hints of red and gold in the Princess’s unbound, mahogany hair, and he realised she looked annoyingly like her mother (whom he had been _very_ glad to see die). They had the same soft-featured face. The same high cheekbones and small nose and chin. The same tantalizingly full lips. In fact, she looked so little like Sparrow, the Princess and her mother could have easily been twins.

He also realised that the dog was making eyes at him, and, truly, it was beginning to disturb him. He didn’t know _what_ the beast wanted, nor did he care to find out; it if even attempted to ‘kiss’ him, the dog was dead.

But Nero never moved and so the journey continued on uninterrupted.

They were entering upon paved roads again, though the paving stones were spotty at best. The wild greenery slowly became stone-fenced fields, some of which were heavily stocked with sacks and crates of trade goods. But soon even those passed, allowing gigantic pine trees and moss-covered rocks to enfold both sides of the path. The derelict brick corpses of abandoned mining buildings peeked out through the trees like brooding sentinels. They and the currently defunct monorail station cast a large section of road in perpetual shadow.

Victoria frowned at the sudden lack of light, unable to read, and glanced out the window to discover the reason why. Remembering her current situation, she brightened considerably upon realizing they were in Millfields. And, if she was right, that meant they were near—

The carriage lurched violently, nearly throwing its occupants from their seats at the less-than-steady ascent up a steep hill. Though...at least they were still moving, proving the horses were well-used to the terrain and they weren’t going to have an accident...despite the steeds now moving very, very slowly.

Nero growled and whined at the sudden movement, prompting the Princess to lay down her book and comfort him. She maintained her silence and spoke not a word, gently stroking the frustrated collie. Her gloved fingers wove through his black and white fur and Nero relaxed under his mistress’s touch, head-butting her hand whenever she stopped petting him.

Victoria allowed a tiny smile of amusement. Nero completely calmed, she looked up...and for the first time in hours her eyes fell on Reaver. He wasn’t looking at her and he seemed about as thrilled as Nero was about being jostled around. A vaguely annoyed expression had settled over his usually smug face, his dark hair slightly disarrayed, and Victoria felt her smile start to grow at his discomfort. Quickly, she turned to look out the window and wiped her expression clean. The last thing she needed was for _Reaver_ to get the wrong ideas...not that _that_ took much, but she’d not let anyone say she’d not tried.

She made herself keep staring out the window as they crested the hill and began to make their way down the other side, not trusting herself to look at her companion. Their driver led the horses over to a grassy area so they could rest and the carriage came to a halt.

Bower Lake spread out before them like a large, gleaming sapphire; the gazebo in the centre looking like a scrap of lace amidst waters of such vivid blue. The Princess had many fond memories of this lake. Namely said memories were of her father and brother, and she reached up to touch the ring hanging from her neck on a thin chain. One such memory came to her in particular; she’d convinced Logan to persuade their parents to let them spend the day at the lake, provided they were both home for dinner. It was her favourite memory of her brother. They’d attempted to climb the remains of Hero Hill until one of their guards had politely asked them to come down before they ‘broke their bloody necks’ and there was hell to pay from their mother. They’d raced each other across the lake, and, when Logan had declared he needed a break, Victoria had gone off on her own to look for anything interesting. She’d found a small chunk of aquamarine secreted away behind a large rock and had later given it to her father in the manner most children thought such things made wonderful presents, hence the ring around her neck. It was one of the few things she had of her father’s. She dropped her hand from the ring. Such memories seemed as if from another life.

And then, looking out at the lake (or, more accurately, at the mansion in the shadow of Hero Hill), something completely off task occurred to her: why were they resting the horses? Didn’t Reaver _live_ in Millfields? Why had they stopped if they were nearly at their destination? After all, they were so close, it seemed a bit unnecessary.

“Reaver?” Victoria called tentatively, her voice soft from lack of use.

“Ah, so she _can_ speak. What a surprise!” His voice practically dripped sarcasm and she didn’t need to look at him to know he was smirking down at her.

She ignored the comment. “Reaver, where _exactly_ are we going?”

“I rather thought I made that quite clear earlier, my dear. We’re departing _home_.”

“Yes, but I seem to recall you living _here_.” She paused, mid-gesturing at the far off mansion at the look he gave her, and cocked a confused brow. “You don’t live here anymore, do you? So... _where in bloody hell are we going?_ ”

“Anxious, are you, Princess?”

His amusement was lost on her. “No, only confused, really. There’s not much to be reached through here other than Brightwood, and—” She hesitated, face paling slightly at the memory of claws and moonlight. “And Silverpines.”

Victoria’s expression went unmissed by Reaver, who leapt upon it enthusiastically. With a fake sympathy that even someone blind and _deaf_ wouldn’t buy, he said, “Why the concern? You wouldn’t happen to be _afraid of the dark_ , would you?”

The Princess gritted her teeth and, not for the first time since the start of this fiasco, longed for her gauntlets so she could lob just _one_ fireball at the man across from her.

“Of course not,” she retorted, matching Reaver’s own sarcastic tone. “Avo forbid, a _Hero_ afraid of the _dark?_ I couldn’t _imagine_ the sorry state this country would be in, should _that_ occur.” Flatly, she added, “You must really think I’m an idiot, don’t you?”

The question was clearly rhetorical, what with there being hell to pay no matter the answer. Victoria crossed her arms, turned angrily from Reaver, and stared broodingly out the window, content to say not another word to him. Ever again. He could just crawl into a hole and _die_ for all she cared. Annoyance flowed from her in waves, causing Nero’s ears to perk up oddly. The Princess had the feeling Reaver was internally laughing at her, admittedly childish, behaviour. Still, she didn’t see how she was at fault for not being fond of Silverpines; _he_ wouldn’t be fond of it, either, had he had his face ripped open by a balverine there.

Though, admittedly, Reaver’s remark about the dark _had_ been accurate to a point (Silverpines seemed _exceedingly_ dark no matter the time of day). But she wasn’t actually afraid of darkness; she was just a little too old and she’d been born in rather the wrong family to be afraid of the dark. Still, she offered a silent prayer to the gods that that particular wood, and all of its wolf-like residents, had nothing to do with their destination, and she went about ignoring Reaver again.

An hour or so later, they continued onward with their journey. They passed large, pastel-coloured mansions, sprawling gardens, and leisurely strolling nobles in strange, supposedly fashionable, attire meandering along the sides of the road. Victoria saw a couple of the nobles quickly turn to whisper to their companions as the carriage passed and a flush rose in her cheeks, though she was unsure if it was due to embarrassment or anger. What gave them the right to judge when they knew nothing of the situation?

They made their way out of Millfields and into a wall of dark trees. Almost immediately, they were plunged into an artificial twilight. Pines and firs lined both sides of the road, growing so closely together that only a _tiny_ sliver of semi-cloudy blue sky could be seen. It was...highly claustrophobic, making her feel as though she were being buried alive. As the deep green trees closed in around them, the carriage had never felt more like a coffin.

Victoria didn’t know for how much longer they travelled. The foliage crowding them kept the sun mostly from view. There was something...very creepy about this place, the middle of nowhere between everything she knew of. She didn’t like it at all.

Time stretched on, passing slower than it ought to have with no way for the Princess to monitor it. At one point, the trees had thinned and Victoria saw a decently-sized, walled village only a mile or so down the road from where the dirt path they were on branched into two. The town was ignored and they never left the path, leaving Victoria to wonder once more where they were. She’d never seen _that_ town before.

And soon they were devoured by green again.

Nero grew antsy the further they travelled, and Victoria couldn’t blame him. She’d lost all sense of time once more, and she was beginning to doubt herself. If she didn’t know where she was, how could she run? She’d been counting on something, anything from divine intervention to a group of unwitting bandits, but it looked like the only way she’d be able to slip away was if she clobbered Reaver unconscious with her book. The Princess glanced at him thoughtfully out of the corner of her eye. Reaver was certainly taller than her (which was a feat in and of itself, seeing as Victoria was usually the tallest person in a room due to her Heroic abilities) and, though he looked skinny as a whippet, she was sure his clothes were hiding that he was stronger than his foppish demeanour suggested. She returned her gaze to the window. As fun as beating up on Reaver sounded, she was sure it wouldn’t end well.

For _her_ , that is.

The tiny sliver of sky Victoria could see out her window grew steadily darker over the next few hours. She was beginning to wonder if they were to travel the entire night when the carriage pulled to a sudden halt, nearly throwing the carriage’s occupants from their seats once more. Victoria frowned. It was almost _too_ sudden.

“What _are_ they doing?” Reaver asked himself in a manner reminiscent of a professor asking _why_ his students were suddenly misbehaving.

Victoria attempted to peer through the gloom, wanting to know the same thing. Was luck with her, after all? “I don’t know.”

It was the first time either of them had spoken since Millfields and the words came as a bit of a surprise to them both. Victoria tried to keep her frown from turning curious as they both exchanged odd looks.

There was a sharp, authoritative knock on the door. “Mis’er Reaver?” a nervous, heavily accented voice—like someone talking with their mouth full of broken glass—called. “We got a bi’ of a prob’em, sir.”

Reaver sighed melodramatically, doubtlessly feeling like he was surrounded by incompetent fools, as he reached for his jewelled walking stick. He barely spared the Princess a glance as he got out and closed the carriage door behind him.

And Victoria simply sat there, hardly daring to breathe. She was alone. He’d _left her alone!_ She just barely contained a joyful squeal, contenting herself instead to a grim smirk. The Princess quickly looked around the carriage for anything of use, and, since Reaver’s hat couldn’t exactly be counted as a weapon, found nothing. As she slipped her book into her cloak’s pocket, she realised for the first time how empty the carriage’s interior was. It was almost as though someone had previously stripped it bare.

The murmur of voices outside let her know that Reaver and his guards were occupied, but Victoria still checked out both windows. No one was nearby that she could see. She waited a few minutes, listening intently, then held her breath and hesitantly tried the door. It opened easily and she let out her breath shakily.

Victoria motioned for Nero’s silence, using a signal she was well versed in using with the collie, and stealthily got out of the carriage. She expected a guard to shout, for someone to ask her what she thought she was doing, or for Reaver himself to suddenly materialize beside her to announce her failure. No such things happened.

She glanced around the side of the carriage for any kind of estimation of how much time she had. The road up ahead was partially blocked with some manner of debris; it looked like it was going to be a while. _Perfect._ She edged around the back of the carriage and darted into the trees as quietly as she could.

The scent of pine and earth surrounded her as she ran and it was incredibly difficult to see. Every time she dodged one branch, there was another behind it to whack her in the face. But she wove through the trees easily enough; Nero keeping pace with her the entire time.

Soon enough, she was a good distance away and she heard no signs of alarm from behind her. She had no idea where she was running to, either; just what she was running from. She didn’t care where she went; she just wanted to get _away_. For once in a very long while, it actually looked like she was finally going to get what she wanted.

And then the shot rang out.

Victoria stumbled and then collapsed, clutching her leg and biting back a scream. Her left leg burned with such an intense pain it was as though it had been set ablaze. And the _blood_...there was just _so much_ blood. Nero was whining, ears back in fear and anxiety. Victoria grit her teeth, trying to block out the pain and trying not to _cry_.

From her left, footsteps lightly crunched their way toward her over fallen leaves and branches. A minute or so later, a pair of shiny, strangely spotless boots came into view. Victoria held in a growl, knowing who those boots belonged to even before she looked up into Reaver’s smirking face.

“What the hell is wrong with you?!” the Princess burst out at him.

Reaver pulled the furious and unwilling girl to her feet, oblivious to the pain the movement caused her. Tone chastising, he said, “Do you remember when you asked if I thought you an idiot? Well, _this_ certainly isn’t garnering any points for your intellect now, is it?”

_“So you shot me?!_

He rolled his eyes. “It’s just a scratch.”


	5. The Gates of Dis

Given the circumstances, the servants were nowhere nearly as surprised as they probably ought to have been about their master bursting into the kitchen, carrying a shot, bleeding, and loudly cursing woman; though their lack of surprise could be counted as a good thing since that meant they cleared the room quickly. Who didn’t love a fast-working staff?

Reaver had to admit, he was somewhat impressed with the girl...well, with her vocabulary. She’d not stopped cursing him from the time he’d carted her through the trees to when he’d gotten her on a horse and rode her up to the mansion. Some of what she said, like when she’d called him a son of a succubus’s whore, was _highly_ creative, the rest was simply baffling; he was unsure her ‘suggestions’ were anatomically, socially, politically, or otherwise correct. Another man would have feared for certain parts of his anatomy. Reaver just wanted to laugh.

But the Princess hadn’t _actually_ said a single word about her leg, so he knew she would be fine…eventually. Which he’d known before he’d pulled the trigger. But, still, it was nice to know since he’d rather not have to kill King Logan because he’d accidentally killed his sister and didn’t exactly want to be _executed for treason_ just yet. He had far too many ideas left running about his head to die without trying them at least once.

He sat the Princess on a table and picked up a couple things as the Princess’s fuming continued on, scarcely halting even when she drew breath. It was only when he’d put a small bottle of crimson liquid and a knife down beside her, and, damp cloth in hand, reached for the hem of her skirt that her diatribe faltered.

“What are you doing?” she asked, voice distrusting and hesitantly meek.

Victoria’s brown eyes had grown wide and she was blushing faintly. She’d taken hold of his wrist, gripping it with far more strength than she’d previously appeared to have in an obvious effort to keep him from touching her. _I bother you that much, do I?_ Reaver couldn’t help but smirk at the thought.

“Removing the bullet, _dear_. Wouldn’t want the wound to _fester_ now, would we?” Sarcasm had drowned out any other possible emotion in his voice, but he couldn’t help but watch and wonder. She was a new thing, after all, and it was very hard to know whether new things were to be trusted or kept at a distance without watching them.

He was pleased to see that the Princess wasn’t immune to his teasing and prodding as Victoria hesitated, momentarily bowing her head. “Is there not a doctor who could do it instead?”

“Of course not!” he laughed, as though the very notion was outrageous. And, really, it was. “I’ve never the need for one myself. But, should you want me to call for one, I suppose that could be arranged; they ought to be here by dawn. Do you think you’ll manage that long, Princess?”

The question was not meant to be answered and it was devastatingly good fun to watch the Princess mentally argue with herself. She watched him, the way she narrowed her eyes and her expression almost painfully like her father’s. Reaver could practically hear the wheels in her head turn while she evaluated him as Sparrow once had and he had to force himself not to look away. After a long second, her throat worked and she released his wrist with a nod.

Smirk widening minutely, he adjusted his grip on the cloth and pushed up the left side of her skirt.

The bullet wound was on the side of her leg; it had been a feat for him, having to catch even with her before pulling the trigger, but it was a blessing in disguise since pulling a bullet out of the back of her leg would have been all the worse. The little hole was grisly, yes, the flesh torn and ragged. But Reaver had seen, and inflicted, much worse, and seeing a gunshot wound caused him about as much discomfort as seeing a paper cut; that is to say: none.

The Princess flinched when he drew a cloth over the wound to mop up what blood he could from his line of site. Reaver felt a surge of cynicism at that and picked up the knife. If _this_ hurt she was going to _loathe_ what happened next.

Digging out a bullet wasn’t as easy as one might think, and Reaver knew from extensive personal experience it often was extremely tricky…especially when the person doing it didn’t have the right equipment for the job. Nearly losing the bullet, he shed his coat and braced her leg with the hand not holding the knife. It took a moment to find the bullet again before he slowly inserted the knife and began extracting the annoying bit of metal.

Victoria’s face contorted in pain and Reaver had to put more weight into keeping her from moving as she tried to writhe away from him. She didn’t scream or curse, though, instead biting her lip so she didn’t elicit more than a low, pained, slightly erotic groan. Reaver kept his grip on her, working as quickly as he could and not bothering with being gentle. At least she wasn’t trying to kick him. Blood had started flowing freely again, pooling on the table and staining skin red. The kitchen was starting to look like a gruesome murder scene from a penny dreadful.

And then the bullet was out.

It clattered down onto the table, the knife joining it soon after. The tiny bottle of scarlet healing potion was pressed into Victoria’s hands. She barely hesitated to drink it.

The wound healed and they stayed as they were; Reaver with a hand on the Princess’s thigh, as bothered by the situation as if he’d been strolling through a park, and Victoria breathing hard and looking as though too much had happened for her to process. He kept watching her. Curious, he waited a second, judging, calculating, and, as effortlessly as the flow of the tide, he leaned in.

 _Gently, gently_. His lips nearly brushed hers.

Victoria placed a hand on his chest...and the next thing Reaver knew, the crackle of electricity filled the air and a sharp shock of Will jolted through his body. Though it was clearly meant to be a warning—a real spell would have, at the very least, thrown him across the room, if it didn’t kill him—the spell still caused him to step back slightly. The last of the lightning died around the Princess’s hands and she eyed him with disgust.

Reaver was more inclined to sarcasm. “I _thought_ I felt a spark between us.”

“Try that again, and you’ll be feeling much worse.”

He raised an eyebrow, mock-pouting at her. “Come now. Do you _really_ expect me to receive _nothing_ for that feat? I _did_ save you, after all.”

“Hmm,” she murmured, mock-thoughtful as she hopped down from the table. “Yes, I do. How do they say it? Oh, right: you can’t be the hero _and_ the villain, my _dear_ Reaver, and still expect everyone to fall down and adore you.”

Victoria was headed for the door, confident and proud despite having been shot and not having the upper hand. It was clear, to him, that she thought this was a game she could win. Wasn’t _that_ interesting.

“And what if I don’t want your... _adoration_ , Princess? Say I only want your gratitude? What then?” Reaver enquired. His eyes were half-lidded, hiding his emotions from her view, but he allowed his amusement to leak into his voice.

And the Princess laughed. At him. Truly and joyfully _laughed_ as though he’d just made the most wonderful pun. She paused at the door and smiled sweetly at him. “Don’t hold your breath.”

~ * ~

Victoria was ashamed to admit she was hopelessly _lost_ in Reaver’s mansion. And, while it wasn’t a surprise—the place looked nearly _palatial_ as they’d rode up—it was still embarrassing. She supposed, though, that it was some sort of weird cosmic retribution for fleeing the kitchen blindly, without any information from her...uh... _fiancé_.

She met no one as she wandered the halls, and, while that was strange to her, that was nothing compared to the oddity that was the mansion itself. It was clear they were in the midst of moving things in as the decorations were...lacking. There were no paintings on the walls, nor ornaments to be found on tables, and an extremely small number of sculptures scattered about. Even the furniture, grand and comfortable-looking as it was, grew scarcer and scarcer as she walked.

And there was something...off about the place. Creepy, even. Victoria’s footsteps echoed hollowly as she walked through the dimly lit halls. Coming to a crossroads of sorts, she turned a corner. She still had yet to run into anyone, not even members of Reaver’s staff. There was an almost lonely and despairing feeling in the air that Victoria found to be nearly tangible. She felt like she was walking through a crypt.

Frowning, the Princess stopped in her tracks, blinking cluelessly at the nearly empty space before her. This hallway looked familiar, _but_ she could have _sworn_ that candelabrum was in the wrong place. She sighed, unsure whether it was in frustration or exhaustion. “Now I _really_ need a map.”

“ _What do you think you’re doing_?!” a voice called in outrage.

Victoria whirled around. “I-I-I—” Finally taking in the sight of the person yelling at her, she blinked in confusion. “...Pardon?”

The young girl standing but a few feet from her wasn’t looking at Victoria’s face...but at her _feet_. Her voice was indignant as she snapped, “Pardon? _Pardon?!_ You’re mucking up the place! Tracking dirt everywhere, you great idiot!” Her eyes narrowed as she eyed the blood on Victoria’s leg. “Blood, too! Do you know how much blood I have to clean from the carpets on a _weekly bloody basis_ without _you_ adding to it?!”

Whom-ever-she-was didn’t bother to listen to Victoria’s hurried apologies as she turned on her heel to storm off.

Seeing her only hope of becoming un-lost walking away, Victoria leapt forward and grabbed the other girl’s wrist. “Wait!”

“What?” she replied flatly, clearly angry as she turned.

Victoria glanced over her quickly, ascertaining that, if her wardrobe was any indication, she was a maid; tiny, probably only fifteen or sixteen. Maybe younger. Pretty, though somewhat plain.

The Princess blushed, thoroughly embarrassed. “Look. I’m truly sorry about the mess; if I knew anything about cleaning, I’d offer to help. But I’m _lost_. I didn’t exactly wait around for Reaver to tell me where my things are. I could—I mean, would you be willing to assist me on my way back?”

The maid looked stunned, almost as if she’d been slapped, and was eying Victoria with a nervous expression as though she’d just realised something rather awful. “You’re—you’re a guest of the master’s, are you?”

“Technically? I...yes,” Victoria admitted wryly. Though, to be frank, she didn’t really feel like much of an actual guest. “I’m Victoria.”

Instead of immediately replying, the maid frantically twisted her arm, trying to break out of the Princess’s grip. “I-I’m so sorry; I-I really— I need to—”

“Please; calm down,” the Princess said in her most soothing voice and tried to keep her surprise to herself. She didn’t understand why anyone would react so violently to her. Maybe her time with the rebels—who had all, eventually, greeted her warmly—and her time locked in the castle—during which the staff avoided her, for the most part—had helped her grow a mite out of touch, but, even when she’d first started this rebellion, she didn’t remember anyone being terrified of merely _talking_ to her. Was it because of who she was?  …was it because of Reaver? “Just...please help me? No harm will come to you, I swear it. If you want, I will never tell a soul. If you’re worried about Reaver, I assure you: any _issues_ Reaver may have about this, he can take up with _me_. Will you help me?”

After a long moment, the girl stopped squirming and managed a tiny nod before leading the way back. And Victoria truly was grateful for it. She just…didn’t understand why the maid had had such a violent reaction to her. What was she missing? Was Reaver already trying to alienate her from any possible allies or was his staff just so conditioned to his usual sort of guest that they never chanced meetings with them? Victoria decided to ask, but, try as she might, she could get very little out of the girl. The maid quietly told her to keep to the front of the mansion where most of the living things were to keep from getting lost, but, when the Princess attempted to get her to open up further, she was met with a polite but resolute statement that it wasn’t the maid’s place to speak to her. The third or fourth time she was met with that reply, Victoria decided to stop talking and, instead, thought hard on it as she was led back into the populated part of the mansion and up a wide staircase.

They passed an inordinate amount of doors and rooms and Victoria couldn’t even _begin_ to fathom creating a mental map of the place. _What sort of man,_ she wondered, _required so much room_ just _for himself?_ She didn’t think she could stand living so alone in such a large place. It would be depressing. A constant reminder of all she _didn’t_ have.

The maid led her down a somewhat narrower hallway to a pair of grand, double-doors, and politely bowed her in.

“There’s a bath, two doors down,” the girl murmured awkwardly, wringing her hands and staring at the rugs. “If you should want one.”

And, before Victoria could thank her, she was gone.

 _Well...that was_ odd. _Very odd_. There was no other way to put it, and so, thoroughly flummoxed, the girl made her way deeper into the lavish room.

An enormous four-poster bed draped in shades of red and gold had laid claim to a large portion of the tiled floor, though the room didn’t look the smaller for it. The fireplace directly across from the doorway she stood in was cold and dark, though the bookcases flanking it were full of tomes. Comfortable-looking chairs, including a two-person sofa, sat at odd intervals, some comingling with little tables while two flanked the sofa at an angle. A folding screen of dark wood carved in an odd manner half shielded a large armoire from Victoria’s view and, to her left, a long, thin table sat in the slowly fading light from a window that occupied most of the wall. As her eyes roved over the various papers and trinkets scattered about (she had to do a double take when she spotted a set of chains curled up on a table, half under a bundle of letters, unsure whether or not she wanted to know what those were for), she realised that this was, in fact, the most lived-in room she’d come across thus far. What _really_ made her stomach twist, though, was that, taking into account the state of the room and its sheer _size_ , Victoria was fairly certain that she was now standing in the master bedroom...which brought up a very good—in her mind, at least—question: why exactly had her trio of trunks been stacked up here? She had a feeling she wasn’t going to like the answer to that question.

Victoria knelt down beside her trunks to retrieve a change of clothes. For a brief second, she pondered going downstairs to see if Reaver’s staff had prepared dinner yet…and then she squashed that idea down; disregarding all the time they had just spent in a carriage together, the idea of sitting at a table with Reaver for an hour made any traces of hunger vanish. A bath sounded _far_ more appealing.

She gathered up her fresh clothes to her chest and slipped out of the bedroom and back into the hall. Much to her surprise, Nero was not waiting outside the door for her, nor did he join her side during her short trek to discover where the bathroom lay. In most situations, she would have been extremely worried for him (after all, there were always dangerous beasts nearby, no matter how safe the surrounding area looked), but she had seen him follow them up to the house and almost into the kitchen so he had to be _somewhere_ on the grounds. _If he’s not waiting here for me when I’m dressed, I’ll go look for him_ , she decided as she entered the bathroom.

Someone—the maid Victoria had met in the halls, perhaps—had drawn a bath in the oversized, gold-embossed bathtub. Once she had gotten over the ludicrousness of its size (honestly, Victoria was beginning to wonder if all the furniture had been crafted in such a way as to make anyone who visited the mansion feel incredibly small), she realised the water was still steaming and, after quickly stripping down, got in. The warm water was soothing to her muscles if not her mind.

Every thought in her head seemed to be running rampant as she sat there, trying to gently remove the dried blood on her leg. She’d been doing a lot of that lately, it seemed—thinking, that is; in happier times she might have jokingly wondered if she were turning into Logan. But that was then and this was now, and what she needed _now_ , was some kind of plan. The problem was that she was sure Logan was using this entire situation as a means of control and nothing more. If she was going to get out of this farce of a marriage, she needed to convince Logan that she was no longer a threat to him. That she had learned her “lesson” and, like a good little sister, was ready to return to the supportive role she used to have. Once she had his trust and his guard was no longer up, she could slip away and re-join the Resistance; from there, it would be relatively easy to redouble their attempts at dethroning her brother. The thing was, it was going to be nigh impossible to make more than a dent in Logan’s army without Ben fighting alongside them—he _was_ one of their best shots, after all. When Victoria took that into account, factoring in all the torment and abuse that Ben was, most likely, currently facing, rescuing him was top priority above all else.

However, rescuing Ben raised an entirely new set of issues. It was not as though Ben had been locked away within Ravenscar Keep—which would have been problematic on its own accord, given that the Keep was located on a small island, far off the coast of Albion, and Victoria had never heard of the place. No, to save Ben would require breaking into Bowerstone Castle’s dungeon cells, which seemed far more insurmountable a task.

Victoria groaned, rubbing a wet hand over her face in a poor attempt to ease her mind. Thinking of intractable things naturally made her think of Reaver and all of the trouble he was going to cause her, no matter what plan she pursued. Though Page had always talked about Reaver being loyal to Logan, Victoria was more of the mind-set that Reaver was loyal to no one but himself. He was utterly uncontrollable. She ducked her head under water as she pondered the virtues of forming an alliance with him. _No, there’s too much of a risk that he’d report any offers I made back to Logan_ , she thought, ignoring the tickle of air bubbles leaving her nose the longer she stayed underwater. So she was either going to have to learn how to handle Reaver or find some _other_ way to get out of this situation; obviously, outright running was out of the question. If only she knew how she’d managed to use Will against him in the kitchen, she might’ve had some way to both defend herself and attack at the same time. Of course, there was always another way….

 _What am I doing?_ The lack of oxygen made her lungs spasm and she lurched upwards, breathing hard. She reached up to wipe futilely at the water dripping into her eyes. _This isn’t something I can just_ fight. _I need to think about this practically, not…not like this_.

She remained in the tub until the water went cold.

Nero was waiting for her outside the bathroom when she was done dressing. The collie panted at her, giving an unmistakably cheerful doggy grin when Victoria patted his head. He kept pace with her as the Princess returned to the bedroom, needlessly balling up her cloak secretively before making sure none of her things had been moved and shutting it away in her trunk. The latch clicked with finality as she locked it.

“You finally found your way back, I see.”

Victoria jumped, startled, and whirled around with her heart pounding in her ears. She wasn’t sure whether she ought to be afraid or surprised for she hadn’t heard anyone come in after her, nor had she seen anyone in the room as she entered.

“Bravo,” Reaver added, entirely unrepentant. The comment was concluded with a bit of sarcastic applause that raised Victoria’s metaphorical hackles.

“Is there a way you could possibly _refrain_ from sneaking up on me?” the Princess ground out, annoyed.

“And miss the lovely shade of red you turn whenever I do? Where would be the fun in _that_?”

 _Well, excuse my impertinence for asking a question_ , Victoria thought, blushing all the more brightly at his remark. Reaver had sat himself on the edge of the bed, legs crossed as though he were the perfect gentleman, though the way he watched her said everything to the contrary, and Victoria was reminded of a question she’d had previously. “Reaver? This... _is_ your bedroom, is it not?”

“Yes; yes, it is, Princess.”

He was smirking at her and Victoria’s expression turned grim as unease gripped her stomach. “I thought so. _Why_ , exactly, are _my_ things in _your_ bedroom?”

“Where else would you have me put them? The hall? It might be a tad awkward for _you_ , getting dressed out there, don’t you think? _Drafty_ , too.”

“Uh… _no_. I’d rather have them wherever I’ll be sleeping, if you don’t mind.” She hesitated. “ _Where_ will I be sleeping?”

“ _Here_ , of course.” He gestured to the room at large before, expression wavering somewhere between feigned innocence and sly teasing, he added, “Did I _not_ mention that before?” His smug smirk said he knew perfectly well he never had and that he was quite enjoying the Princess’s anxiety.

“You know _damn well_ you didn’t,” Victoria muttered, glowering at Reaver. She stopped, eyes going wide as something occurred to her. “Wait...if _I’m_ sleeping _here_ , where will you...?” She broke off. Reaver was giving her that look again, the one that said ‘ _your stunning display of ignorance is amusing me, so, by all means, please continue_ ’. And then everything made a lot more sense. “No! No, no, no, no, no! No. I’m not-I-I _refuse_ to sleep with you! In _any_ capacity.”

“Again, what would you have me _do_ , Highness? You’ve already proven yourself _quite_ the little escape artist. Just imagine how _angry_ our _beloved_ King would be, finding his little sister had gallivanted off in the middle of the night. I couldn’t have that now, could I?”

Reaver was laughing at her; even though it wasn’t out loud, it was still plainly obvious to her. But Victoria had no sympathy for what Logan would do to Reaver if she ran away—honestly, as far as she was concerned, any misfortune that befell Reaver while they were stuck together was entirely his fault; if he’d not agreed to this thrice damned engagement, then nothing would have probably happened—and she struggled to contain her temper. “ _I am your Princess_ ; the _least_ you could do is afford me a bit of _privacy_!”

“ _My_ Princess?” he echoed, his brows rising and the tone of his voice shifting as though he’d just found out something both shocking and fascinating…only, not really. The change in behaviour wasn’t reflected in his eyes and he was still far too sarcastic to be believed as he added: “ _Really?_ Well, if I had known that sooner--”

“You are the most _infuriating_ — I’ve never— I am _not_ in the mood to put up with you right now,” Victoria raged, cutting him off and storming from the room with Nero on her heels.

Someone needed to put a bullet in that man. When that day came, she hoped she was the one to do it.

~ * ~

“Smug, sarcastic, arrogant pain in the—”

Victoria paced in furious circles, her hands anxiously clenching and unclenching as she struggled to keep her ire from spilling out of her head and into the room she’d locked herself in. It was a library, after all—or so Victoria thought; it looked far too comfortable and had too many books for a study, though it was also much too tidy for any proper library—and Victoria preferred the thought of finding solace within its walls instead of mayhem. Her hopes for peace upon entering the room, however, went unanswered.

 _I can’t do this_. The teasing, the innuendos and flirtation, it was too much. All of those idle thoughts Victoria had had in the bath about potentially attempting to coerce Reaver onto her side were suddenly gone in the wake of his remarks about them sharing a bed. She could not _believe_ his audacity. How _dare_ he make such assumptions about her and about where their “relationship” was heading? With the way he was acting, one might believe she was some—some common _tart!_ It was awful, utterly _disgusting_ , both for his total lack of propriety and his blatant disregard for her feelings. And yet…and yet, though she was loathe to admit it, she wasn’t entirely surprised by his behavior.

Though they hadn’t had very much interaction prior to the previous few days (Logan had never allowed her to sit in on any of his appointments with Reaver), Victoria could recall that she had always seen Reaver surrounded by a large group of admirers. Nobility visiting the castle grounds often gossiped about his many lovers or bemoaned their lot in life if they failed in their attempts to _become_ one of those lovers. However, the more time Victoria spent in Reaver’s presence, the less she understood the nobility’s infatuation with him. She just…couldn’t see what was so attractive about him. Sure, in a happier state of mind, she might have been able to find the angles of his face—which appeared even longer and thinner than it really was if only because of his high cheekbones—artistically intriguing, but there was just something about him, either in the arrogance and odd femininity with which he held himself or the unnaturalness of his height, that was… _off_.  Victoria couldn’t put her finger on it. It was as though he wore a façade of almost angelic beauty, but something dark, manipulative and twisted, was slowly poking through the cracks.  And the thought of what that darkness could be terrified her.

Unfortunately, she was almost certain that that was the exact same reason people flocked to him: to see what the mystery was and if they would be lucky enough to solve it. Victoria wondered if it had ever occurred to him that some people didn’t care—that some people sensed depravity and fled so as not to be contaminated themselves. She doubted it. It seemed far more likely that Reaver had charmed, seduced, and swindled so many people into his clutches that the very thought of her resisting was…well, unthinkable. An offensive embarrassment, an annoying challenge. How could he have resisted making an effort to tempt her?

She would have groaned aloud at the realisation, if only she wasn’t so angry. Reaver’s “request” that she sleep in his bed disgusted her beyond all measure. It was one thing to be trapped within his home, but in his _bed?_ Her skin crawled at the very thought of being so close to him and she shuddered. The thought occurred to her once more that she couldn’t _do this_ —that she needed to just _go_ and leave this place and this engagement behind and get as _far away_ as she could. But she knew this wasn’t a situation she could easily remove herself from. After all, one couldn’t be free of their chains without a key, and only their jailor held those. Unless she killed him, of course.

Victoria paused, the thought running through her mind again. On the other side of the library, Nero sat in a moth-eaten armchair, tail thumping tentatively as he watched his mistress. He shivered, unconsciously feeding off Victoria’s anxiety as she resumed pacing.

Victoria didn’t know how long she paced, just that time passed at a crawl. A dull lethargy crept up over her, slowing her movements until she threw herself down into an empty armchair. Her thoughts chased themselves around and around like Nero after his tail, but, instead of trailing into nothingness with her exhaustion, her thoughts seemed to have no end. The world outside the windows slowly turned from dusky blue to solid black. By the time she became aware of the lateness of the hour, the library’s lamps were almost entirely burnt down. Her body and head ached with fatigue that she tried to deny, if only so she didn’t have to bite the bullet and face the devil she was now living with.

And yet she knew, if she didn’t, he would probably hunt her down and drag her to bed.

The bastard.

Once again cursing Reaver’s very existence under her breath, she attempted her way back to ‘their’ bedroom. She wasn’t confident as she crept through the mostly silent halls—almost all of which were dim and shadowy now—but there was a spark of hope that she’d not had in a very long time.

When she finally found the bedroom again, she didn’t bother knocking; instead, she meekly pushed the door open and walked straight in. Though Victoria couldn’t bring herself to look up from her feet, she was well aware that she wasn’t alone when she entered the room and hurried over to her trunk. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Nero hop onto the couch, sniffing the unfamiliar fabric with curiosity before plopping down with a sigh. Victoria tried not to smile at him as she grabbed her chemise and dressing gown and ducked behind the folding screen.

Uncomfortably slow, she unbuttoned her dress before sliding it off. Her eyes kept roving the edges of the screen as though she expected someone to be peeking over it at her. This was, quite possibly, the oddest experience she’d ever had with clothes in her entire life…even when one considered that dressing like a male bandit fiasco (which still made her frown when she really considered how anyone could have possibly bought into the act). Victoria, honestly, was used to dressing with others around—her butler, Jasper, had dressed her from the time she was a child and still insisted on doing so when she let him—but this was the first time she felt like she was dressing for an attentive audience and a shock of inexplicable shyness struck her. She didn’t want anyone to see her like this. Fighting back a blush, she struggled to pull on her chemise as quickly as possible and then yanked on her dressing gown. She only paused when she reached up to let her hair down, and flinched just slightly when she felt her hair brush against her back. _There’s nothing left now_. She grabbed her dirty clothes and stepped out from behind the screen.

Her heart seemed to stop when her eyes fell on Reaver.

He was waiting for her in bed, not a scrap of clothing covering his bare upper body and his blankets were low about his waist; so low, in fact, that she began to wonder if _anything else_ was bare. Victoria felt her cheeks burn and barely managed to catch herself as she mentally traced the cryptic, spindly symbols that littered his skin. She forced her eyes upward, tearing her gaze away from where the candlelight played over the smooth planes of his surprisingly well-defined abdominal muscles. (And, really, Victoria didn’t think that was fair. For the last year, she’d been on quests nearly nonstop, and she still barely showed any real muscle tone…which raised the question of what Reaver did when he wasn’t being…well… _him_.) She hoped her surprise wasn’t written on her face as she tore her eyes away from him. Damn him, if he probably had planned for this to happen, if only just to see how she would react.

Smoothing her expression into one of cool disinterest, she raised an eyebrow at the smug man. “I hope you realise,” she began tartly, using formality to cover up how shaken she was, “that, should you _happen_ to be nude under there, I will most certainly _not_ be joining you.”

Reaver laughed, his devious grin crinkling the tiny, smudged heart shape that occupied his left cheekbone like an inky tear. “Nervous, are you, dear? Why not come and check?”

Victoria scowled at him and was finally able to push away her embarrassment. After a brief moment’s hesitation, she crossed the room to where Nero lay and rubbed his ears. “Come on, Nero, let’s go to bed.”

“ _Where_ do you think you are going with _that_?” Reaver enquired when she made for the bed with Nero at her heels.

She paused at the sudden sobriety in his tone, feeling puzzled. “Nero always sleeps beside me.”

“I care not for what he ‘usually’ does. I _will not_ allow a _dog_ in my bed.”

“Then why are _you_ in it?” Met with a bored silence, Victoria added, “If it bothers you _that much_ , then let me have a room of my own.  I _know_ you’ve more than plenty to spare.”

“Ha! Hardly. Now, now, dear; don’t be petulant. Leave the dog and come to bed.”

The Princess stared at him, contemplating where and how would be best to hit him. When Reaver appeared unthreatened, Victoria spun on her heel and ushered Nero back onto the couch. She retrieved her cloak and drew it around him, tucking him in like a child before whispering none-too-quietly, “Bite him while he’s sleeping.”

Nero stared blankly and lovingly at her and thumped his tail a couple times. Victoria simply sighed. _So, I suppose,_ that _won’t be happening_ , she thought, shaking her head as she finished tucking him in.

She stood and turned, wiping her expression blank in the same moment. Something about Reaver’s expression dared her to make good on her “order” to Nero, and the Princess allowed a tiny frown as he, _invitingly_ , beckoned her over.

Victoria considered, for a split second, just turning around, leaving the room, and finding a couch to sleep on somewhere. But then a hundred rumours of lecherous, cruel, and otherwise deviant things she’d heard the Resistance members say about him, along with memories of how he’d handled situations that she had witnessed, came to mind in a flurry and she had the feeling Reaver would not be entirely adverse to dragging her back by her hair, if he had to, and binding her to the bed. In fact, she was sure he’d enjoy it.

Affecting impassiveness to keep from doing anything she’d regret later, she slowly walked over to the bed and got in as far over from him as she could. “I hate you.”

He snuffed out the candle, bathing the room in darkness. “I’m _flattered_ you think so highly of me. _Good night_ , Princess.”

“Mm-hmm.” _Shut up, Reaver_.

She rolled over onto her side as she normally did, slipping her hand casually into her dressing gown’s pocket as she moved, and felt the bed shift slightly as Reaver too settled down. Victoria tried to put as much of a distance between them as she could without falling off the bed...which would have just been humiliating. Despite her awkwardness, she did have to admit that it was difficult for her to not just _melt_ into the bed; it was _that_ soft. She was sure that, even before becoming a Hero and getting used to sleeping in ramshackle inns and on ratty old bedrolls, she had never slept on any bed that was quite as comfortable. Victoria had to hold in a sigh of contentment and pleasure upon remembering where she was.

Down, silk, and satin caressed her, but still Victoria couldn’t sleep. She just lay there, thinking over all she had done and all she had yet to do. And, as she plotted the murder of the man on the other side of the bed from her, she wondered what her father would have said. It was more obvious to her what her mother, cold woman of action that she was, would have said; she would have just given her that flat look that she had always worn when Victoria disappointed her and told her to get on with it and to be ready to face the consequences. Her father? She hadn’t a damn clue.

Her thoughts unwound as she lay there; soft, even breathing the only sound in the room.  She stared at the darkness-shrouded canopy of the bed, listening to her heart pounding in her ears. Time ticked by and it was sometime between two and three in the morning that Victoria simply couldn’t take _lying there_ any longer.

With stealth born of constant Skill-usage, she crawled out of the bed without a sound and without shaking the bed.

Victoria used the ghostly moonlight pouring in through the window to help guide her around the bed without doing something stupid...like bumping into the frame. She crept forward, hand once again sliding into her dressing gown’s pocket to grip the pistol hidden there. In the commotion she’d caused after Reaver had shot her, the guard that had helped her onto the horse only a few hours ago had never felt her lift his pistol from his holster. While unfamiliar and clunkier than she was used to, the grip was comforting as she removed it. She hadn’t planned on using it against Reaver, only to keep it nearby for comfort’s sake. But now…she doubted she would feel safe as long as Reaver was around. And speaking of the deviant….

Reaver looked deceptively peaceful as he slept. Victoria watched him for a moment, hesitating for the first time. What did she think she was doing? _He deserves it!_ a dark part of her mind insisted. _He kills on a whim. He’s a criminal!_ Alright, so he deserved to be jailed, but did that really mean he deserved a bullet in his brain? _Yes_ , the little voice said feebly. _I think so._ But the voice was getting quieter and was quickly fading as she simply stood there with the gun aimed straight at Reaver’s face.

She found she couldn’t move to shoot. And then she realised her father would have told her not to do it.

“I can’t do it,” she whispered, startling herself with the sound of her own voice. She wasn’t a cold-blooded killer...what kind of Hero was she if she couldn’t kill a single man who was responsible for some truly monstrous deeds?

“ _I_ can,” Reaver said, startling her further, especially when he levelled his own pistol at her.

Defensively, Victoria brought up her pilfered gun. But, internally, she was shaking. He’d been...faking? Pretending he was asleep, when, really, he was awake and ready to shoot her should she have tried anything? Had he somehow known what she had planned? Was she _that_ predictable? Or was he just _that_ light of a sleeper? The surprise faded from Victoria’s face as they watched each other; measuring the sureness of the other’s grip, their comfort with the weapon at hand, and their confidence at making the shot before the other. The Princess admitted to herself that, though she was confident about her accuracy, she doubted she was the faster.

“You knew,” she murmured. She wasn’t asking.

“Of course. Did you _really_ think anything occurred in my home without my knowledge?”

He sounded chiding and Victoria bristled. “I am _not_ a fool, Reaver. This is a war...you’ve just picked the wrong side. Did _you_ really think I wouldn’t attempt anything?”

“Don’t speak to me of war, _Princess_.” Reaver’s expression was lost in darkness, but Victoria thought, by his tone, he was mocking her. “This dispute between your brother and yourself is nothing more than a petty sibling rivalry. Hardly a war. Hardly worth the time and effort.”

The thought that everything she had worked so hard for meant nothing struck a nerve. Victoria pulled the trigger. It clicked uselessly in her hand. The Princess blinked at the gun, perplexed. She’d checked it before getting into the bath and it had been loaded...where had the damn bullets gone?

“Apparently I underestimated you,” Reaver continued, and Victoria could _hear_ the smirk in his voice. “You _are_ capable of gunning someone down in cold blood. Or, at the very least, attempting to. Next time, perhaps you might check and see that it is, in fact, _loaded_. Still...good try on your part.”

The sarcastically patronizing tone made her grit her teeth as she realised she’d played right into his hand. She hated being had, especially by someone she despised, and wondered _how_ he’d known she’d stolen the gun. And how he had known just what to say to get her to pull the trigger. “I _loathe_ you.”

“I know, dear. Now, give me the gun.”

Victoria hesitated. He could shoot her at any time, he could attack her and do just about anything he liked, and there was just about nothing she could do to stop him…and she knew it. “I know you’re a better shot than me; do you think I would remain trapped here _and_ give you my only, useless as it is, weapon?”

“Trapped?” he echoed, raising a brow at her despite visibility in the room being spotty. “Have I shackled you? Placed you in a cage? The front door is _open_ ; you need only to walk out it. And know that, once you do, not only will Logan be hunting you, but you will have the entirety of the Resistance tailing you, as well. After all, I’m sure they were less than happy at the news of our little engagement.” Victoria had made no move for the door, and he made as if to wave her away. “Well, go on. Tatty bye. I’ll wish you the _best_ of luck.”

Victoria didn’t move. Page’s face had come to mind, twisted with the same rage and disgust she’d often displayed toward Logan and Reaver, but this time her ire was directed at Victoria. How had she forgotten to consider how the Resistance would react? How was she going to go back to them?

“Staying, then?” Reaver said, clearly having anticipated how Victoria would react. “Good. Now: the gun, if you please.”

She looked down at the pistol in her slack-gripped hand. She considered it for a second, knowing Reaver’s patience with her was nearing its end, and she handed it over. He took the pistol with his free hand and dropped if on the bedside table with a clatter; the guard who had lost it would _not_ be having a pleasant day when morning came.

“This doesn’t mean I won’t try to kill you again,” Victoria insisted, attempting a defiant expression.

“Oh, of course not,” Reaver allowed, finally uncocking and lowering his own pistol. “Now, come along to bed, Princess. It _is_ a bit late for death threats, perhaps you should wait for the morning.”

Sarcasm duly noted, Victoria hesitated once more. She then, slowly and slightly unsteadily, made her way back to her side of the bed. In that moment, Victoria felt resigned to fate.

But she wasn’t done fighting yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To everyone who's offered their support thus far, you have my eternal gratitude. ^^ -hugs-


	6. Play Dead

Breakfast was exceptionally tense the next morning; at least, it was for Victoria. She’d awoken after only a couple hours of fitful sleep to find that the opposite side of the bed was long empty and that several of the servants had taken her clothing off to be pressed and there was currently none of her day clothes available for her to wear. It was only then, feeling rather uncomfortable in only her morning gown, that she hesitantly made her way down to the dining hall and seated herself as far away from Reaver as she could without being out of reach of the breakfast spread. However, it was quickly apparent that she needn’t have worried about Reaver paying her any mind, his attention seemed to be solely focused on a man seated adjacent to him. The mystery man spoke animatedly, all gesturing hands and ever-changing expressions with every word, but Victoria couldn’t understand a single thing out of his mouth—as soon as she had stepped into the room, he and Reaver had switched from the common tongue to some sort of odd regional dialect that Victoria had never heard before.

Utterly confused and only just realizing how hungry she was (she’d neglected to eat breakfast the previous morning and had refused both lunch and dinner, as well…which, when she thought of it, explained why her stomach was so angry at her), she quickly began pulling various dishes toward her and started adding things to her plate. In a normal situation, she would have been highly suspicious of the food, concerned that it could be tainted with poison or some strange chemical, but both men still had remnants of their meals left on their plates and Victoria decided that that meant it was safe enough to eat. She glanced at both men surreptitiously and then grabbed a second scone when she decided that no one was watching her.

It was about halfway through the process of dolloping clotted cream on top of her jam-slathered scone that she recalled her threat the previous night that she would make another attempt on Reaver’s life. She paused, her mind going oddly blank, and her eyes were drawn to him almost as though she were a puppet and he the puppeteer. The butter knife was smooth and just weighty enough to feel comfortable in her grip and, just for a moment, she considered attempting to make good on her threat. And then, despite ignoring her from the very moment she entered the room, Reaver turned his gaze toward her and their eyes locked. Something about his expression was far too knowing, as though he knew exactly what Victoria had been thinking and was silently daring her to try _anything_ with the blunt piece of silver in her hand. Victoria tensed, unsure whether her body was about to leap into fight mode or flight mode.

Then the moment passed; the mystery man rose to his feet and Reaver gracefully followed suit. Before she knew it, the men were gone and she was alone.

 _What am I thinking?_ she wondered, almost gritting her teeth in frustration. _I would have attacked him; I almost_ did. _What is he doing to me?_

She took a large bite of scone and followed it up with a sip of strong, sweet tea. The anxiety of the previous night was starting to creep back up on her and it made eating exceedingly difficult. Somehow she managed to force herself through the entire plate (though she slipped more than a couple pieces of meat to Nero) before making her way back upstairs to attempt to change into some _actual_ clothes.

An hour later, Victoria found herself standing a couple feet away from the mansion’s front door, staring quizzically at it. Though Reaver had said she could leave at any time, she wasn’t certain she believed him. There had to be a catch…right? Something _other_ than what the Resistance would possibly do in reaction to the engagement news, or the way everybody _else_ would look at her for it, to keep her there. It _couldn’t_ be as easy as opening the door…could it?

“Excuse me, Your Highness,” a footman enquired from Victoria’s right, baring a carefully cultivated drawl that gave him the impression of being very well bred, but couldn’t quite hide the fact that, underneath it, he sounded like he came from Bowerstone’s slums, “but is there something you require assistance with?”

“I—” Victoria hesitated, unsure how to make her query sound any less ridiculous before blurting out, “You wouldn’t happen to know if the door is locked or if I can just…leave, would you?”

She took it as a mark of just how intelligent most of Reaver’s usual guests were that the footman didn’t show any sign exasperation or sarcasm as he replied, “It is unlocked until our butler retires for the evening, Ma’am. Shall I open it for you?”

Victoria flushed, ducking her head as she stalked over to the door and murmured, “Thank you, but I think I can handle opening a door now that I know it’s unlocked.”

The wind-chill had dipped quite a bit overnight and Victoria could definitely feel that winter was swiftly approaching as she stepped outside. Still, it was bracing and set her at ease better than anything else had in a long while. She didn’t even try to stop the small smile that was beginning to grow across her face, especially when Nero, clearly just as excited to be outside as his mistress was, threw himself down onto the grass to roll around.

Victoria raised her scarred face to the wind and closed her eyes, trying to pretend she was anywhere else. All around her birds were singing and she could smell damp earth and growing things, but that didn’t make the illusion stick. So she steadied herself and started walking down the stone drive that led away from the mansion, letting Nero decide whether or not to come along on his own. The drive’s paving stones were large and smooth, as though someone had taken a very long time to make sure they were perfectly even, but grew smaller and slightly irregular the further from the mansion she got. Victoria vaguely recalled that the drive had slowly changed from paved stone to dirt the closer it got to the main road, but wasn’t sure how far from the big house that the change took place. She also wasn’t entirely certain what her plan was. Obviously she wanted to see just how far the property’s limits were, but she was also very curious how much security there was. (She knew perfectly well that, no matter how many guards and how light security might be, she wouldn’t be able to leave quite so soon, but she also knew that, if there seemed to be very little security, then she would be able to find time to sneak out when she wasn’t in a dress that was constantly trying to trip her.)

It took about ten minutes of rather slow walking before a gate Victoria didn’t recall ever previously seeing came into her field of vision. It was made of ornately designed wrought iron and set into a wall of old stone, half-again as tall as a man. The stones looked easy enough to climb without too much effort, but there was still a problem of how many guards were there—she didn’t see any making their rounds, but that didn’t necessarily mean there weren’t any around. Sure enough, as she drew closer she spotted four guards standing around the gate, looking far too uninterested to make Victoria think they were paying much attention. Victoria and Nero kept wandering closer and the Princess kept a careful eye out to see just how quickly the guards would notice her.

“Oi!” one barked when he finally noticed her and Victoria frowned, realizing that, had she been armed, the guard would have been in sword’s reach.

“Yes?” the Princess replied, affecting politeness as she carefully noted what the guards were carrying. All of them bore rifles and pistols, and two of them wore bandoliers filled with grenades. _They may be ignorant_ , she thought, _but they are far too well armed for any direct combat. I’ll need to think this over_.

“Yeh shouldn’t be so close to the gate, lass,” a different guard said, his accent thick but his voice polite.

Victoria was quiet for a second, glancing between the foursome, before forcing a smile. “Of course.”

She turned, clenching her fist in the dusty rose fabric of her skirts to keep from doing anything rash. So Reaver _hadn’t_ been telling the complete truth; it wasn’t just as simple as walking out the door, she was going to have to actually _fight_ her way out first.

~ * ~

It was snowing; not very hard, but enough to make the world look as though it were dusted with sugar. Soon, as most people in Albion knew, they would be getting their first major snowfall of the year and then the snow would go from beautiful to a hassle. Which was why now seemed a good time to investigate the grounds a bit more thoroughly, instead of waiting a few days and possibly getting stuck in a blizzard. It was also the perfect time to find a bit of seclusion. Victoria had discovered a small garden tucked away in the back of the estate a couple days previously, its entrance way so choked with currently dead ivy that it was nearly impossible to notice it at first glance, and so, given that very few of the servants would bother coming outside in this weather, she decided to spend the afternoon hiding out in it. It seemed like a far better option than the alternative; after all, Victoria had spent most of the last week and a half that she’d lived with Reaver bickering with him about the most inane things—things she would usually have paid no mind to, but which were now, for some reason, incredibly important.

The garden was shaded by a pair of ancient oak trees and comprised mainly of strange plants that were all, given the lateness of the year, somewhere between nearly dead and completely dead (though that didn’t keep her from noticing that a good deal of those plants were, in fact, poisonous). Victoria sat herself down on a worn stone bench that was half surrounded by the dying remnants of black rose bushes—an exotic and occasionally prized flower that had seen a popularity decline in the last few centuries, if only because some people had once associated it with evil deeds—and she tried to focus herself. Ever since she’d discovered this place, she had thought it would be a good spot to practice strengthening her Will. Now was the time to test that theory.

She relaxed her body, forcing her limbs to go limp like a ragdoll, before attempting to do the same with her mind. It was difficult, though. She was hyper-aware of everything around her, from the bite of the wind to the sound of sparrows in the branches above her, and she couldn’t stop the occasional thought of “this is stupid” that kept passing through her brain. She tried to focus on the way it felt to summon her Will—like lightning and fire flowed through her veins, expanding within her like a physical force attempting to break free from the confines of her body until it exploded outwards, manifesting in the palms of her hands. She strained to focus on the sensation until her body ached. But, when she opened her eyes, her hands were vexingly empty.

Victoria immediately began trying again. And again. And again. For two hours she tried, struggling to remember how she had used Will for the first time back in her parent’s crypt, and each time she came up with nothing.

 _Oh, balls!_ she fumed, crossing her arms with a huff. It just wasn’t fair. She was doing all the same things she had done before, the only difference was that she no longer had her gauntlets…which, clearly, she now needed. _Damn you, Logan_ , she thought, recalling that her favourite pair of gauntlets currently was being kept in Bowerstone Castle while the rest were equally beyond her reach in the Sanctuary. The gauntlets had to be the key to why she was able to manipulate Will so easily before. Something about them must have been able to unlock the latent abilities in her blood while still granting her a measure of control. If she could only figure out how they’d done it, she was sure she could mimic the process herself and, for the first time, properly use Will without her gauntlets.

Except she had no idea where to begin. Clearing her mind was difficult and she didn’t think she was going to be able to manage it any time soon, neither did attempting to rouse the magic by feel. It was…immensely frustrating. How was she going to be able to fight anyone without her Will? It wasn’t as though anyone would be giving her a gun or a blade any time soon, so she _needed_ a secondary skill to fall back on. _At this rate, I’ll be stuck here for eons!_

Heat and golden light exploded from her right hand and Victoria could only stare as the tiniest fireball she’d ever laid eyes upon hurtled through the air, only to crash into one of the oak trunks. The flame vanished, leaving no trace but for a faint scorch mark on the rough bark.

Her thoughts hit a blank as she simply stared at the burn, utterly transfixed. Emotions slowly began to tumble back to her, and the faint tingle of victory prickled in her veins. _Anger is the trigger_. Suddenly the thought of practicing for a few more hours seemed much more welcome.

~ * ~

The weather took a turn for the worse over the next week and more than a couple days saw the entirety of the mansion’s populace stuck indoors, waiting for the flurry of snow outside the walls to dissipate. In truth, the snow was the only reason Victoria had forgone her secret Will training and, instead, had curled up in the morning room shortly after breakfast one day. Reaver had seated himself on the velvet-covered couch opposite her, but Victoria thought he seemed content to focus on something he was writing in a large, leather-bound ledger and so she was free to read without interruption.

…Not that _the Bowerstone Times_ was really worth paying _that_ much attention to. Though the newspaper had been in business longer than most people could remember, it seemed like most days _the Times_ had been reduced to a tawdry gossip rag. That day, the subject of such blather was Bowerstone Industrial’s factories. Though Victoria agreed with just about anyone who found the factories belching out noxious smoke and rancid fumes disgusting, she couldn’t understand how anyone would place the blame on the poor for whom there was no other place to go. She tried to read both sides of the article, but still found that she placed the blame solely with the factory owners. After all, was it not wrong for these “men of privilege” to use their wealth to the disadvantage of others? Was it not harmful to the community for paying their workers a pittance so that they could grow fat and lazy in their avarice? Victoria thought it was.

 _Who wrote this drivel?_ Victoria thought, torn between exasperation and anger. Her eyes narrowed at the sight of the name Pierce Mulch. _Of course it’s him_. Though Victoria had never before met Pierce, she was very familiar with his work. Occasionally, he would show a spark of talent by writing something totally unbiased that cut straight to the heart of whatever he was getting at—something truly inspired and thoughtful—but most of the time his work was so laden with egotism and magniloquence that it quickly became insipid and more of a chore to read it than anything.

“ _Ridiculous_ ,” she huffed as she tossed the paper aside. Frowning to herself, she reached over and retrieved her tea cup from where she’d left it on the coffee table.

“My, whatever could be quite as ridiculous as that _pouting_ you’re working so very hard at?” Reaver enquired, not looking up from his ledger.

Annoyance pricked at her and she glared at him as fiercely as she could. She could feel an argument was beginning to form, but she couldn’t just sit and take it from him, of all people. And so, against her better judgement, she snapped: “Nothing more ridiculous than your belief that you can treat those who work for you as you do and get away with it.”

Reaver slowly raised his head, watching at Victoria as though she were an odd sort of bird that didn’t make sense to him, and replied, “I _bother_ you so _very_ much, don’t I? You simply cannot stand that I don’t fall in line with your plebeian line of thought.”

“Is there something you want to _say_ to me, Reaver?” Victoria hissed, feeling the faintest crackle of her Will spark just out of her reach.

“Only that I find your manner of reasoning to be exceptionally tiresome and childish. Tell me, _ma chere_ , do you truly believe that the world can advance on the back of _happy thoughts_ for industry alone, or are you just parroting what your little rebel friends think?”

Victoria simply stared at him in wide eyed incredulousness, unable to coax words from her throat or put her thoughts into a cohesive line.

At her silence, Reaver, in a much too agreeable tone, added: “I’ll say it in a way that will make it easier for you to understand, little one: how do you think your father was able to tear down Castle Fairfax and rebuild it into Bowerstone Castle?”

Victoria frowned, annoyed at being called “little” but confused at what he was getting at. Her glare wavered as she said, “By seeking the aid of skilled craftsmen and paying them fairly to ply their trade.”

The look she was given insinuated rather strongly that he thought she was being an idiot…again. “And who do you think _they_ employed? Better yet, what about all the craftsmen who made your weapons and clothes or those who grow the food you eat? The fact is: I am not alone in what I do, nor am I the first to think of it. As long as I provide goods that people want, the way I run my business will remain the same…just as it would for any other businessman in Bowerstone. And the opinion of _one_ Princess who is too proud to admit that she is just as much to blame as I am will, eventually, mean nothing. After all…does anyone really ever remember those second in line for the throne?”

In the time it had taken Reaver to make his point, Victoria had gone from disbelieving to frustration and then straight to fury. Her blood was like ice in her veins at his insinuation that she was nothing and never would _be_ anything.

This was, Victoria was aware, how most of their conversations ended up: Reaver would say something that, coming from anyone else, might have had an inkling of logic to it, and then would add in enough insults that Victoria would end up reduced to a ball of rage and nerves. From there, everything would dissolve into a mix of shouting and sarcastic jabs until Victoria got fed up with the conversation and stormed out of the room. She could feel, in the current moment, that this conversation was going to end the same way…if only because Victoria no longer had the patience to speak civilly with the man across from her. And then something about his expression caught her attention. He looked as arrogant and mocking as ever, but there was something in his eyes…almost as if he were studying her and eagerly awaiting her response.

 _Does he mean_ anything _he just said?_ she wondered in the back of her mind. _Is this all a game to him?_ Her eyes narrowed in thought, quickly recalling all their previous conversations, and she soon felt the desire to smack herself for not noticing it sooner. _Son of a_ bitch _, he doesn’t care…he’s just doing this for my reaction_.

If anything, the realisation made her want to scream at him even more. Then she remembered something her mother had once told her when she’d been fed up with Victoria’s wildness. “ _You will never find a husband acting like this,”_ she had said. _“A man only wants a wife to obey him, not to run rampant in the streets like a mad woman.”_ At the time, Victoria had been too young to care, and, as she grew older, the thought sickened her. (Be subservient…to anyone? What a ridiculous notion!) But, of what she knew of Reaver, he couldn’t stand a lack of challenge. So, if it was reaction he was looking for, then why not simply endure his bait and not react at all? Play dead, so to speak.

 

Though it was far more difficult than making a rebuttal would have been, Victoria wiped her face clean of emotion and made an attempt to still the tremors running through her body. With as much dignity as she could muster, she carefully set her tea cup down and picked up the book she’d left beside her saucer—a rather heavy book on law that looked as though it hadn’t been read more than once the entire time it had been in the library. As though nothing had happened and everything was just fine, Victoria recrossed her legs and began reading.

The room had become utterly silent except for the oddly loud ticking of a small brass mantle clock. She couldn’t hear Reaver’s pen scratching against paper and every page she turned sounding incredibly loud to her straining ears. After ten minutes or so had passed (though it felt infinitely longer), Victoria chanced a subtle glance in Reaver’s direction. He was looking down at his ledger as though interested in it, but his smirk had faltered just slightly and something about him seemed, if only for a moment, confused.

Victoria forced herself to keep any of her minimal triumph from showing on her face. She hoped—to Avo, to the Light, to any and every god that might be listening—that she could keep this up. After all, if she could, the two of them might be able to live together for just long enough for her to find a way out.

~ * ~

“Reaver? _Reaver!_ ” Suppressing a yawn, Victoria pulled herself upright in bed. It was happening again—Reaver was thrashing in his sleep and, as usual, he’d woken her up. It was a fairly normal occurrence, though, and Victoria had grown so used to it that she knew just what to do and it no longer brought her any panic. (Or, at the very least, seeing Reaver in this state no longer caused her panic…at least when he wasn’t speaking in his sleep; those times gave her a fright, if only because she never knew just how he would react to her awakening him.)

Yawning once more, Victoria reached over and shook him roughly, quickly pushing herself back to the edge of the bed in case Reaver lashed out in reflex. This time, however, he did not. Victoria watched as his dark eyes snapped open, swirling with a storm of chaotic emotions and confused thoughts for a split second before awareness and recognition came over him and Reaver’s gaze went almost emotionlessly blank. Victoria, in turn, began her usual routine of ignoring him, slowly getting up out of bed as he, equally slow, began to sit up.

The room was awkwardly quiet around them as they went to get dressed.

It had been a total of four weeks since Victoria and Reaver had begun living together—four very long weeks that had tried and tested Victoria in every way Reaver could manage to use against her, and yet…they still didn’t know how to deal with each other. Granted, she supposed that her ignoring him and him doing everything in his power to aggravate her were solid examples of their attempts at “dealing with each other”, but they had yet to find any kind of balance. Reaver infuriated her and Victoria seemed to be boring him with her blankness—with the exception, of course, of those times when he did something no amount of submission or passive aggressive behaviour could keep her calm for; those times when her temper flared up until it threatened to overwhelm her.

Victoria paused in the midst of her dressing, the sound of the bedroom door first opening and then closing resounding quietly throughout the room. She listened for the sound of departing footsteps in the hall and only just managed to hear the soft tread of boot heels on rugs. Once satisfied that she and Nero were finally alone, Victoria finished buttoning her blue-and-white gown and braided her hair before heading for the door herself. There was a lot she wanted to do today, namely the practicing of her slowly growing, but still pitifully underwhelming, Will abilities (underwhelming, if only because singular icicles, spindly arcs of lighting, and apple-sized fire balls were the least threatening spells she could have ever imagined), though she knew perfectly well she would have to wait until the hours between lunch and afternoon tea if she didn’t want to chance being caught in the act by one of Reaver’s business associates. Therefore, her main goal of the day was to find some information on Reaver that she could use to her advantage. She’d been keeping her eyes peeled for any little bit of data that would either make Logan see Reaver for what he was or help Page find a way to undermine the current regime.

The problem was that she hadn’t yet found Reaver’s study or where he kept any important information that wasn’t readily available to the public. He was, surprisingly, very thorough. Still, she checked the library daily for what information she could find on law in the books and checked through all the desks and drawers that she could find for anything Reaver had hidden away. Though she never found anything, she didn’t allow herself to give up hope. One day she would get her hands on that damned ledger of his or she’d find a way to listen in on a meeting with one of Reaver’s clients without his noticing her or she’d be lucky enough that she’d get into his study and find everything she could ever want to use against him…and that day would be a good one, indeed. But, for now, it was time to go to work.

~ * ~

He was bored; painfully, annoyingly _bored_. Bored enough that, after a few hours of trying to force his way through paper work (and getting hardly any of it done), he’d simply put the papers aside, leaned back in his chair, and put his feet up on his desk. His eyes fell on the missive he’d received just that morning and, turning slightly to frown at the dark-panelled walls, he had to repress a humourless snort. Despite the affected amusement, Reaver was, to put it delicately, _annoyed_. He had anticipated meeting with a client this morning—a client who was willing to pay a _very_ handsome amount of gold for a series of objects that laid in a legally grey area of being neither legal nor illegal in Albion—but, instead of the man himself coming, Reaver had simply received a very impersonal, very ambiguous letter about how the man wouldn’t be able to make it. It would have been a minor annoyance if not for the fact that this was the third of his associates this week alone to arbitrarily cancel on him.

Reaver glanced downward, watching the firelight from his study’s fireplace play off of the heavily shined leather of his boots. Despite playing the part of an ignorant fop most days, he was keenly aware of why his business was suddenly becoming so difficult to tend to. _Son petit Princesse_ was bad for business. He _tsk_ ed chidingly as though he was able to reprimand Victoria from the other side of the mansion. Honestly, the Princess was _such trouble_. If only it was the type of trouble that he enjoyed—the type of trouble that made life _fun_ , but…no. _No_ , the Princess was fixed on playing her little games while pretending that he was an idiot, and, truth be told, Reaver thought he was demonstrating an extraordinary amount of patience with the frigid girl. It was a shame, really: he’d expected her to be such _fun_ , that she would use that marvellous temper of hers and _play_ properly. And…for a while, she, to a degree, had. Then she had gone cold on him—as cold as the first of winter’s frosts—and her behaviour quickly grew tiresome. The fact that she assumed he was ignorant of things that went on in his own home was, in a word, foolish.

Still, there were times when she showed a spark of the fire he’d witnessed that first night she’d tried to kill him; times when he was able to rip down pieces of her façade and witness her temper flare for himself. In those moments, he felt like he was, for the first time since they’d begun living together, seeing something _real_. Her face would flush, her body would tense as though she was resisting the urge (to attempt) to break his nose. And, all the while, her brown eyes would all but _scream_ all the nasty little things she’d like to do to him.

That said, the times she had walked in on him in various compromising positions with an even larger variety of ‘friends’ was, admittedly, fun too; though not as much fun as the very first time (Reaver recalled a lot of screaming and blushing on the Princess’s behalf and a lot of general confusion as he’d barely refrained from lapsing into hysterical laughter). Strange, virginal girl. One would think she’d never seen two men—actually, Reaver retracted that statement; the little Princess probably _hadn’t_.

But he was digressing.

Contemplative, he brushed a barely-visible speck of dust from his boots before picking the wine glass up from atop his desk and taking an over-large sip. He _really_ needed to find a way to convince his clients that Victoria was just as harmless as she (grumpy little kitten that she was) looked. Despite the fact that he knew that wasn’t _exactly_ the truth, it wasn’t as though they could expect _him_ to continue to go to _them_. It was laughable to even consider it!

But what to do? What to do? With the Princess in his care, he had to be careful about the amount of attention he attracted, otherwise King Logan would probably have him arrested—which was only a _minor_ inconvenience, but he didn’t _really_ have the patience for it at present. Then, of course, there was a dreary, dull, and absolutely _safe_ way to fix everything—namely take Victoria to be introduced to those clients who were afraid of her and get her to act as sweet and innocent as could be. (Obviously, some type of blackmail would have to be involved, but that had the bonus side effect of completely infuriating the Princess. The problem, however, was that it would be too easy to lose track of her and he really didn’t feel like having to find some effective means of _leashing_ her.)

He paused, not even bothering to try and hide his smirk as the last of his ideas finally unfurled within his mind. If nothing else seemed like it would work…there was always his _usual_ way of handling such things. He chuckled to himself, thoroughly amused. Oh, the Princess would be certain to loathe him for it…which, in turn, made his idea perfect. After all, how lucky would he be if this worked out so well that he not only reassured those who invested in his company, but also made the Princess so furious that she might be willing to try _other_ means of _venting her anger_? He paused again, then mentally shrugged. That last bit seemed rather unlikely, but…at the very least, he could dream, _couldn’t_ he?

~ * ~

Victoria crumpled the letter in her hand and had to struggle to keep from accidentally incinerating it. The missive had arrived via an extremely nervous courier only a few hours previously; upon word that it was from Logan, Victoria had slipped out of the mansion a little earlier than she’d previously intended to work on her Will practice for the day and, after completing it, took to reading the letter. Now she wished she’d never opened it.

Logan’s letters had always been straight to the point, without emotion or random wanderings from the subject matter even when they’d both been on good terms with each other, but for him to be so callous as to praise her for not demonstrating any “distasteful behaviour” as well as telling her that he was certain the “transition” to living with Reaver would be easier with time…she didn’t want to admit how much it hurt her. She had sent him so many letters, begging and pleading with him to release her from this engagement, but he had ignored them all. Perhaps she should have told him about Reaver shooting her, or even that they were sharing a bed, but she knew it wouldn’t be the end of it. Logan would not be pleased, but, eventually, it would get out that she’d tried to run away or that she made use of them sharing a bed to attempt to assassinate Reaver, and everything would just be chaos. She couldn’t risk Ben dying for her mistakes, and so she’d kept any information that would show poorly on her as away from Logan’s hands as she could manage. Though, if she were honest, she feared that was why Logan was still keeping the engagement going: he didn’t see any of the issues that were going on in Reaver’s home. Unless Reaver told him, of course, but Victoria didn’t see that happening.

 _I feel like a trinket_ , she thought bitterly. _A trinket that’s been bought and sold_. Her eyes and cheeks burned, but she was convinced that the wetness she felt on them was just snow that had melted from her body heat. Beside her, Nero whined, clearly worried for his mistress, and licked her fingers affectionately. She pet him numbly, barely aware that he was there.

She lingered in the garden without any notice of how much time was passing. It was only when she realised just how much she was shivering that she wiped her face on her cloak and began the short walk back into the confines of the mansion. Nero kept to her side as they walked, not chasing his tail or attacking miniature snow banks as he had when they’d left the house, and Victoria, for once, didn’t make a move to cheer him up. She was too preoccupied by her own self-pity to be aware of anything else.

And then someone crashed into her.

They both fell over at the impact, toppling into the snow, and Nero watched, head tilted, and gave them a tentative tail wag. Victoria slowly sat up, shoulder throbbing slightly, and shivered as she pushed her hair out of her face.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, milady,” the maid in front of her blurted, clearly embarrassed.

“It’s not a problem, Ella,” Victoria replied, recognizing the girl as the same maid who had found her the very first night she’d arrived. She stood up, stumbling over the hem of her cloak, before helping Ella to her feet as well. “Are you hurt?”

“No, Ma’am,” Ella said politely, then, as if remembering something, she said quickly: “The master had something to tell you; he told me to come find you.”

A mixture of dread and annoyance coiled in her gut and Victoria bid her to lead the way back. The closer they got to the front of the grounds, the more noise Victoria could hear. They drew around the corner of the building and Victoria had to pause at what she saw before her. And enormous covered cart had taken up residence in the front drive, its chestnut-coloured horses looking bored and uninterested in everything around them. Servants were bustling around, taking all manner of odd barrels and crates off the cart and bringing them indoors, leaving Victoria extremely puzzled. She tried not to show it, however, just in case Reaver happened to be nearby and watching.

As they passed, the servants regarded them both with nervous glances, but with no other acknowledgement. Even when they stopped to let a crate bearer enter the mansion first, there was barely any indication he’d noticed them. It made Victoria feel even more uncomfortable with the entire situation. Especially when she noticed Reaver standing off to the side of the foyer, completely exuding the attitude of a taskmaster. Victoria mentally scowled. All she had wanted was a long, hot bath and a chance to sulk before having to play nice for dinner, but now she was going to have to struggle through this rubbish conversation beforehand. She idly wondered how long she’d be able to go without exploding.

As though sensing her frustration, Reaver gave a grin that would have put a mischievous child to shame. “Why, _good evening_ , Princess. You’ve _finally_ decided to join us, I see.”

Victoria gave him a flat look of complete and utter apathy. “I’m _really_ not in the mood for this, Reaver. What do you want? …And _what_ is going on?”

“Oh, all that I wanted was to know where you were _lurking_ these days. As for what you see before you…it’s nothing out of the ordinary, _ma belle_. Certainly nothing to _concern_ yourself with,” Reaver replied dismissively. He was trying to catch her interest and it was working.

“ _Really_?” Victoria shot back. Her tone saccharine sweet, she continued after a beat, “Then allow me to rephrase: what are _you_ up to?”

Reaver gave her a Cheshire smile as he leaned heavily on his jewel-topped walking stick. “I am ‘up to’ nothing, my sweet. However, _we_ do have matters to attend to.”

“And what are ‘we’ meant to be doing?” _Do his games_ never _end?_

“You see, Princess, I had the most _horrifying_ revelation this morning that we’ve all but cut ourselves off from the _dreary_ normalities of society and I am doing my _very best_ to rectify it. Therefore, _we_ are hosting a party.”

“A party?” the Princess echoed, her annoyance beginning to bubble up once more. She closed her eyes as if it would calm her. Avo, save her and grant her patience; she was going to need as much of it as she could get. Her mask of feigned blankness utterly destroyed, she opened her eyes and all but growled, “ _Of course_ it’s a party.”

Reaver was lucky there were servants around. If there hadn’t been so many available targets for him, she would have outright punched him.


	7. Walking With Strangers

Fingers tangled in her hair, seductively slow at first and then almost harshly. Victoria gasped in surprise, breath catching a moment as her hair was lifted over her shoulders. The fingers unwove themselves from her hair, trailed slowly down her spine, and busied themselves with her corset. She grimaced at Reaver in the mirror. “Don’t say I’m being difficult. I’m _not_.”

“Of course you’re not,” he agreed, his high-bred tone boredly sarcastic as he jerked her slightly in effort to tighten the corset laces. His fingers brushed against her with every movement and he could feel her shiver. Why she refused a maid’s help with such things was _beyond_ him. Though this _did_ present a rather wonderful opportunity to touch and look without being condemned. And it also brought up a series of deliciously fascinating questions; after all, who would have ever thought that the naïve little Princess had tattoos? “Which reminds me: since you are _not_ being difficult, _why_ are we continuing with this conversation?”

Victoria narrowed her eyes at his reflection. There was no right answer to that. Crossing her arms petulantly, she murmured sulkily, “I _hate_ parties.”

 _“I_ hate _parties,” Sparrow had sulked, crown slipping down his forehead slightly as he’d pouted. With his arms crossed and lower lip jutting out, he looked utterly like a child. Despite the fact that the royal ball was in full swing, the King had decided to hide himself out of sight and was set on attempting to keep his friend from changing that. “You’re just going to drag me back, aren’t you?”_

 _“Only due to your_ charming _wife, I can assure you,” Reaver had replied. “Come along, Sparrow dear; apparently the simpletons_ need _their King.”_

_Translation: get off your lazy arse before the hellbeast you call a wife murders me, kicks you out of the bedroom, and feeds our corpses to the idiots known as the nobility of Albion._

_Sparrow got to his feet, still pouting, and sighed. “Very well, but I_ still _hate parties.”_

“Reaver? Reaver?” Once more having gained the industrialist’s attention, Victoria said confusedly, “Why did you stop?”

She hoped her voice wasn’t _too_ enthusiastic.

In response, Reaver quickly cinched the corset tightly closed with a yank. The action snatched the air from the Princess’s lungs and the jerk of it nearly caused her to fall back into him. Her stumble drew a soft chuckle from the man.

Hand at her heart as though it would steady her, she gasped, “Too tight. It’s _too tight_!”

“Can you breathe?” Reaver enquired, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear as he leaned forward to feel that the corset was lying flat. He was completely unconcerned. He _had_ done this before, after all. Not that he was planning on telling Victoria that anytime soon.

“Barely,” the Princess hissed, glaring at Reaver’s reflection.

Reaver pulled back, hand smoothing over her side as he did so. His fingers brushed against her breast as he straightened up, feigning obliviousness to her glares. “Then it’s not too tight, now, is it?”

Victoria glowered at him the entire time he finished lacing her up. Her nerves were too wound up for her to be nice and she didn’t trust herself to speak. When Reaver had finished, she moved away from the mirror to struggle with her boots and a buttonhook. She ignored a couple of japes aimed at her and, finishing with her boots, took a moment to sneak a look at the man dressing across from her as she absentmindedly spun the buttonhook.

He wasn’t done yet, but, as she watched Reaver button his silk shirt, she thought his black attire brought out something… _darker_ in him. Something forbidden and slightly alluring. He looked like a thief that had slipped in during the night. It was slightly disconcerting.

_You’ve ruined me._

Victoria hurriedly turned her back on him, stepping into her skirts. The heavy black fabric gently swept the floor as she buttoned it up and carefully pulled on her blood red bodice (taking only a second longer than usual to be mindful of the delicate ebony lace at her collar and sleeves). It was funny, she decided as she attached skirt to bodice and hid the ties by buttoning the bodice down with some “decorative” rubies, that she was so against this party and yet she went through all the motions so smoothly. Perhaps her body was simply betraying her.

She coiled her hair, being careful with the pins. She wasn’t very good at the whole hair/jewellery ordeal—as far as she was concerned, that was for far more feminine women and she did not happen to be counted amongst them. Which was why she relied on Jasper to make her look somewhat agreeable, after all. It took her longer than she was comfortable to admit to do it herself and, when she was done, it was obvious she’d dressed herself. She bit her lip, feeling somewhat hesitant.

“Oh, Princess?”

She paused mid-putting on an earring. “ _What?_ ”

“You’re not _really_ going to wear _those_ earrings with _that_ dress, are you?”

Victoria felt like she’d just walked into a brick wall. Great Avo, he was _not_ criticizing her jewellery. “Why? I _like_ them.”

“They’re abhorrently tacky and childishly unfashionable,” Reaver retorted with a dissatisfied glance at the dangly bits of ruby and gold.

 _Says the King of the gauche himself_ , she thought snappishly. Saccharine sweet, Victoria said, “If you’ve a better idea, then, by all means, tell me it.”

He strolled past her and, after a quick rummage through the little bag of jewellery, dropped something into her hand. They were surprisingly subtle. Thumbnail-sized black stones highly polished to bring out the flecks of gold within. Lodestones. Awkwardly, the Princess put them on. _Oh, wow._ She was surprised; instead of looking like a child playing dress up, the minute change made her…somewhat more sophisticated. Well. That was… _different_ ….

“There. You _almost_ look like a lady, now.”

Victoria glanced over her shoulder to where Reaver was fastidiously working on tying his cravat. Rolling her eyes, she knocked his hands away to do it herself; the gesture secretly surprised them both with its odd familiarity, and Victoria quickly blamed it on the fact that, for many years, she had helped her brother with the exact same thing. “Funny, because you _still_ don’t look like a gentleman.”

Though the words were said under her breath, she had the feeling Reaver heard her clearly.

The situation felt normal, _familiar_ , despite nothing about it being normal, and Victoria didn’t really like or understand it. Luckily, she was saved from pondering over that paradox when she felt something brush against her thigh. Victoria paused when she looked down and her eyes fell on Reaver’s holstered pistol. It was so _temptingly_ close, she almost wondered if he’d done it on purpose.

“Admiring my weapon?” Reaver purred smugly.

“No. Just considering how fast I would need to be to steal it and run.”

“There’s no need.” When she raised a questioning brow at him, Reaver, meeting her eyes, continued, “No matter _where_ you ran or how _fast_ you went, I would find you. _No one_ steals from me without being punished for it.”

Victoria blushed, couldn’t help it. The way he’d said it…. She could tell he meant every word; there wasn’t just a sinister promise in his voice, but something heated and almost carnal behind his words—the promise of something far beyond her current emotional spectrum. And it terrified her, even while it sowed the seeds of some odd feeling she’d never considered in her gut. She quickly tried to change the subject.

“I still don’t see _why_ you need to bring a weapon to your own party.”

“I prefer to keep _my_ weapon with me at all times. I never know when I might have to whip it out.”

Victoria’s blush deepened. “Can we have a single conversation without you making an innuendo?”

“Who ever said I was making an innuendo? My, what a _naughty_ mind you have, Princess. I wonder if you’ll allow me to put it to good use.”

Reaver was grinning in earnest now, like a deviant schoolboy preparing for another round of rule breaking, and Victoria rolled her eyes, trying to hide both her blush and the small smile that had developed on her lips against her will. “You’re hopeless.”

~ * ~

As soon as Victoria stepped into the party, she felt like she was in a whirlwind of sound and colour. There were so many people and so much noise that Victoria was tempted to cling to Reaver to avoid being swept up in it all. Despite her terror, her pride dictated that she didn’t do so.

All Victoria was aware of was that, at first, there had been a lot of bowing and curtsying and “how do you dos?” And then there had been a lot of talking. Reaver’s so-called “friends” (for no _real_ friends would have ever warranted the amount of mockery in his voice at the word) put her on edge. They were nosey, overly-flattering, and something about the way they watched her made her feel as if they were wolves descending upon her. They were like a parody of human life; a fantastical, corrupted burlesque of what reality was really like. It was both disgusting and intoxicating for all the wrong reasons.

She knew _why_ though. Why they paid such close attention to her and Reaver, to every detail of their interactions. She’d seen it with her mother and father before. It was a test. And, though the test was of Reaver’s own doing, it was still _very_ real. Victoria could feel the weight of their questions pressing down on her. She knew the nobles were dying to know if the relationship of the Princess (the little Hero who ran to everyone’s aid, who gave away her wealth freely; who could even convince the bandit leader to stop harming others!) and the deviant (who thrived on debauchery and to whom every day, and everyone, was a new conquest) would end as a fairy-tale or a flop they could laugh over later. And for something they could pass along to Logan with the right incentive. Suddenly, Victoria found appreciation for all the etiquette lessons she’d ever unwillingly had; she might not have respected her so-called fiancé, but she could damn well pretend. And so Victoria played sweet and innocent, as though she were still a child, and watched every word she said, every single action she went through, to ensure that there was absolutely nothing anyone could find fault with.

Still, Victoria felt rather like a toy being passed around for everyone to play with. She danced with men she’d never danced with, or even spoken to, before. Chatted with women who spoke sweetly but whose sharp eyes, despite her best efforts, found everything from her self-styled hair to the amount of shoe her dress showed distasteful. She declined an inordinate amount of drinks before she eventually had to excuse herself and hurried off to find a hiding spot several rooms away.

It was so unlike any party she’d ever been to: so full of energy it made her uncomfortable. And yet…something was _bothering_ her. When she and Elliot had attended balls together, they had spent most of their time _together_ , talking and dancing with few others. She had not yet danced once with Reaver or even talked to him outside of a group. Once they had separated, that was that. And for some unknown, inane reason, it _bothered_ her.

“You look tired.”

Victoria jumped and looked around to see who had intruded upon her hiding place, and flushed slightly when she realised she’d actually intruded on someone _else’s_ privacy. “Beg pardon?”

The other girl grinned. “I said, ‘you look tired.’” She took a dark cigarette from the curly-haired boy she was with, took a drag, and then held it out to the Princess. “Rowan, by the way. Want a taste?”

“No, thanks,” Victoria replied awkwardly, sitting down near them when beckoned.

“I know who _you_ are, you know,” Rowan matter-of-factly added. “I know you don’t like when people call you ‘Princess’ because you think they only see you as your title. I know you don’t like when people crowd you, and I know you’re a Hero. And that you need to learn to take better care of your possessions.”

Before Victoria could ask what she meant, Rowan tossed something small over. Her father’s ring. Victoria’s hand immediately flew to her neck. The chain that usually bore the ring was gone. Slightly panicky, she asked, “Where did you get this?”

Rowan raised an eyebrow at her urgency and brushed a bit of her pink-dyed hair from her face. “ _Relax_. The chain was nearly broken, so I grabbed it. You _really_ should keep a closer eye on your things.”

“You’re a thief,” the Princess realised, amused in spite of herself. She slipped the ring onto her middle finger.

“Yep.” Rowan nodded toward the door as the boy she’d been sitting with left through it. “They’re all mad out there, eh?”

“Yes…yes, they are. How—how do you know so much about me?”

“Page told me some so I’d keep an eye out for you. And Kidd told me you helped rescue him from our _dear_ host; nice going on that, by the way.”

Surprised, Victoria quickly glanced around the empty room and lowered her voice. “You know Page?”

“ _Yeah_. See, I run away from my parents a lot; whenever the stress to be _perfect_ gets to be too much, actually. Page found me wandering in Bowerstone one night, took me in. She’s lovely, really. When I told her who my family was…uh…acquaintances with, we agreed that a good way for me to repay her was for me to report back everything I hear. Not as easy as it sounds, actually.” Rowan paused, then thoughtfully added, “Page’ll have _kittens_ when she hears you’re okay.”

 _That_ jolted Victoria out of her surprise. “You can’t tell Page I’m here.”

“Why not?”

Rowan was nearly pouting and Victoria was struck by the fact that, despite all her matter-of-factness, the other girl didn’t look older than fifteen. _She’s too young to have to be a spy._ Victoria prayed to Avo that Reaver didn’t know or, at the very least, didn’t care enough to do anything about it.

“Page might not…be the most accepting of the news.”

Disbelief creased Rowan’s young face. “I don’t think—”

“Please, Rowan. I can’t get out and I do _not_ want them to get false hope. _Please_. Will you do this for me?”

Rowan wrestled with it for a long moment before nodding shortly and saying with a groan, “Now I’m _really_ going to need a drink.”

_You and me both._

It was both odd and pleasant to speak with Rowan; there was a strange comfort to speaking with someone with neither a side nor agenda. However, though it was easy for Victoria to open up to the younger girl, she had to still be cautious; reminding herself who Rowan’s family was aligned with and that she was still young enough to be naïve about the world and was, therefore, most likely easily manipulated by the top-hat wearing deviant in the other room. They found a safe topic in travel; where they’d been, what they’d seen, where they wanted to go next. The South Islands. Mount Ruon. Samarkand. The Northern Wastes. Both of them being runners at heart, they lost themselves in dreams of far off places.

Hours passed, though it felt like mere minutes, and it wasn’t until they heard a commotion outside the room they were in that they both froze. Questioning glances were exchanged as the outside chatter rose and fell. Approaching footsteps broke through their reverie and Rowan jolted as though burned.

“I wasn’t supposed to be talking to you. I need to go,” Rowan said quietly as she cast an anxious look at the door. However, instead of walking out, the little thief climbed out the open window and vanished into the night as if she’d never even been there.

Needless to say, Victoria was utterly baffled. She wondered what sort of logic dictated to climb out a ground floor window (in a _ball gown!_ ) instead of going out a door. _Thief_ , she reminded herself. Also remembering the footsteps outside, Victoria shook the confusion from her head and made her way out into the hall…

…and crashed into Reaver.

“Princess!” he exclaimed, catching her arm when she looked as if she might fall over.

“Something wrong?” Victoria fought down a bit of panic, wondering just how much, if anything at all, Reaver heard. She didn’t want Rowan to become a permanent member of a missing person’s list because of her. _Great, more guilt_ , her cynical side observed.

He raised an eyebrow at her as Victoria yanked her arm free from his grip. “And why would you think something was wrong? Guilty about something, _ma belle_?” When Victoria waved off the teasing questions, he added, “No, I merely wanted to find out where you’d secreted yourself. Can’t have you running off now, can I?”

It was his carefree tone that gave Victoria pause. Taking in his lack of a sycophantic posse, she suddenly had a very bad feeling about everything.

“Something _is_ wrong,” Victoria decided hesitantly, frowning at him. “You only bother to come looking for me when you want to gloat about something. What did you do _now_?”

There was something oddly maternal about her tone; like a mother trying to scold a child out of misbehaving. Or at least trying to get him to feel guilty about it. It didn’t work, but it _did_ grant Reaver a measure of amusement from it. He mentally scoffed at her. _Children these days…._

“You _worry_ too much, Highness,” he told her. But he seemed smug and no amount of flattery in Reaver’s voice would calm her suspicions. “I merely wanted to invite you to join a little game of mine.”

“A…game?” the Princess echoed, puzzled. That had _certainly_ not been on her list of expected replies. She decided to humour him. “A game…what _game_ is this?” Under her breath, she added, “I hope you’re not labouring under the delusion I’m going to part with my clothing.”

Strange as it sounded, even to her own ears, she remembered more than a few comments of Reaver’s that had insinuated just that. Her worry increased ten-fold when, apparently hearing her, he laughed at her.

“ _My_ , Princess, nothing so radical! But if you insist….” He trailed off thoughtfully, then appeared to rouse himself. “Ah… _no_. No, it’s something you should be _intimately_ familiar with; a real _riot_ , I’ll admit.”

His words pulled on a memory. _The Wheel of Misfortune! It's rather simple. I spin, you die, we watch. Really! It's, it's a riot!_ Victoria went pale, her eyes widened in muted horror. She remembered the arena vividly, fighting wave after wave of creatures attempting to take her head off. She remembered Page fighting by her side, the two of them struggling to make way as they progressed through every room and each progressively difficult round all to insure that Kidd survived. And she remembered the aftermath, wounds that struggled to heal even after a cache of healing potions. He couldn’t _really_ mean _that_ …could he?

“No,” she breathed. Her heart pounded in her ears and, unable to do more than just stand there, she simply stared at him. “ _No._ You _can’t_ ….”

“I was a bit hesitant, myself; what with having such a terribly short amount of time to prepare…and none of your _charming_ Resistance members to join us.”

“If you’ve harmed one of my friends, I _swear_ to you I’ll—”

Reaver continued on, cutting her off with a dramatic sigh, as if she’d never spoken. “Still, the show must go on. No need to upset the peons, after all. Coming, dear?”

“You’ve got to stop it!” Victoria was well aware she was raging. Her fists were so tightly clenched that her knuckles were white. Her body trembled with fury at the injustice of it all. For Avo’s sake, this was _Albion_! Their country was modern and powerful. They weren’t savages! They didn’t just sit and _watch people get slaughtered!_

And yet…apparently they did. How _truly_ different was Reaver’s “game” from the Crucible in Westcliff? Honour and dignity aside, of course. And what did it say about them in general if people in Reaver’s graces came from far off to watch? _We’re monsters._

Apparently Reaver didn’t agree with her.

“No.”

Those two little letters could have easily ended all arguments, could have sent her spiralling into the depths of despair. Instead, they made her fight harder as she barely reined in the urge to smack him. “I’m not asking you to _destroy_ it; just that you _stop playing_.”

“To what point and purpose, hmm? To save a few miserable peasants’ lives or to spite the wretched nobility? _Well_?”

“Because it’s the _right thing to do_ ,” Victoria spat, Reaver’s patronizing tone grating on her nerves. “Because you _can’t_ just do things like this to people!”

The look Reaver fixed her with suggested she was being very naïve. “I think you’ll find, Princess, that I _can_.”

“Logan wouldn’t approve.”

“The King doesn’t need to know.”

 _Well,_ I _don’t approve._ Victoria, still shaking with rage, had to struggle to keep the words to herself. Why would he care if she approved? Better yet, why did _she_ care if he did? “Then _what_ , pray tell, would I have to do—within reason—to get you to stop?”

Reaver’s expression grew sly. He let moments just tick by as he leisurely looked her up and down; observing, calculating. Before meeting him, she couldn’t remember ever having someone’s attention so fully upon her before. It made her want to blush. It didn’t help that, since she’d walked right into him before, they were still standing rather close together. Almost _too_ close.

Victoria suddenly wished she were on the other side of the hall.

“You really want me to stop, do you?” He didn’t wait for an answer. And, reminding her of that first night when he’d healed her in the kitchen, he gracefully, fluidly, leaned in…

…and Victoria quickly flung out her arm to get him to keep his distance. Her Will, charged with nervous and erratic energy, electrified the air around them. Her voice was but a whisper as she spoke, “I said, ‘within reason’.”

“I’m going to require a little _motivation_.”

And, this time, the Princess offered no resistance when he leaned in to kiss her. His lips met hers, soft and seductive at first until he forcefully deepened the kiss. Reaver dominated her. Masterfully, he angled her face up to give himself better access as he teased her lips apart.

 _No!_ A punch of something hot and unfamiliar hit her gut. Her irritation heightened when she realised that this, her first ever kiss, was making her lose control; she could have simply melted in his arms. _I won’t! I_ refuse _to give in._

Her fingers clenched in the lapels of his coat and she yanked him closer, crushing her lips against his. She could _feel_ his surprise ripple through him, but she paid it little heed. A soft moan escaped her. Her kiss, inexperienced as it was, was greedy, and, at that moment, she didn’t care that Reaver’s free hand was slipping lower and lower on her curves as she pressed her body more fully against his.

Victoria bit his lip when Reaver tried to slip his tongue into her mouth, but the groan she received in return wasn’t exactly pained. Their kiss grew urgent: lips moving against each other fervently, hands traveling where, she was sure, they ought not to have.

And, just as she was beginning to wonder if she _really_ cared what else happened between them in that little hallway, Victoria broke the kiss. She had to admit, she secretly found amusement in the fact that she’d then surprised Reaver twice in all of ten minutes.

She stared at the tiled floor as she caught her breath and tried to calm her heart. She couldn’t help but feel simultaneously empowered and terrified. _What am I doing playing with fire?_

“There,” she murmured, ignoring that she was flushed as she finally looked at Reaver. “You got what you wanted. Call it off.”

A lock of her hair had fallen out of her up-do and Reaver carefully tucked it behind her ear as he leaned in. “Not worth it.”

He took a step back, straightening his suit, his expression decidedly Machiavellian. Victoria could do little more than stare at him as if he’d just slapped her. That feeling of betrayal gave rise to her earlier fury; her Will charged the air with even greater strength as her temper rose.

“ _You demented son of a bitch!_ ” she fumed, barely able to keep from hitting him. “You were never intending to call it off, were you?”

Reaver, in contrast, was entirely unconcerned. Cheerful, even. “Not at all. Now, I _really_ must be off. People to entertain, you understand, Princess. Ta!”

He began to saunter off, leaving Victoria spluttering with indignation. However, halfway down the hall, he turned back and added, “And for your earlier threat. ‘Find a way to kill me’, that’s how you were going to end it, hmm? If I ‘harmed’ one of your troublesome, little friends? Better than you have tried, _love_. Feel free to take your _very_ _best_ shot. Good night.”

He gave her a quick, mocking bow and was gone, leaving her speechless and infuriated. Once again, she didn’t know what to think anymore.

~ * ~

All was right with the world. Or, at least, that was Reaver’s mind-set as he walked through the now deserted halls of his mansion.

Things, truly, could not have gone any better…for the type of party they’d had, of course. He hummed a jaunty little tune as he walked. That little interim with the Princess had been great fun, too. Dear girl was probably furious with him, but he truly didn’t mind. She was so much more _interesting_ that way.

His boot heels clicked across the tiles. Where was she? The emptiness of the mansion was like a physical entity, crowding him all the while, but Reaver ignored it as he walked…just as he was trying to ignore the fact that he was actively looking for the Princess. The strange girl had vanished without a trace and without rousing an alarm. A true mystery, to be sure. But she had to be found and _now_. Reaver mentally sighed. The girl was Sparrow’s daughter, alright: _trouble_ in _every_ regard.

Several empty rooms later, Reaver became aware of a low sound, lingering beneath his humming. Was someone… _singing?_ How strange. He traced it to a door a couple halls down.

_“—_ _and all the harm that e'er I've done, alas it was to none but me. And all I've done for want of wit to memory now I can't recall_ _—”_

The words washed over him, garnering very little reaction. He pushed the library door open.

“Hello,” a tired voice greeted him. The Princess didn’t look at him as he leisurely came toward her. And, though Reaver expected (one might even say _hoped_ for) an explosion from her, he was sorely disappointed. Her eyes never left the fireplace.

“What a sorry sight this is,” Reaver remarked, sitting in the armchair across from hers. He immediately noted the nearly empty decanter on the table beside her. Add that to the Princess’s odd behaviour and…. “My dear, _dear_ girl, I do believe you’re _drunk_.”

It would have been hilarious if it weren’t so terribly _pitiful_. He’d thought her more mature, more _dull_ , than that.

“I’m fine,” she insisted, glowering at him with slightly unfocused brown eyes. Her words slurred slightly as she added, “’Cept when I’m _not_.”

“So it would seem.” It was an endeavour not to laugh at her.

She stared at the carpet and, broodingly, attempted to murmur, “It worked for falth…fad… _dad_.”

“Yes…yes, it did,” Reaver agreed under his breath, sounding almost thoughtful. He quickly weighed his options, finding it amusingly ironic that it was more dangerous for the Princess to be wandering drunk and clueless than sober and vindictive. That was certainly a rarity. The deviant stood and offered her his hand. “Come along, Princess. Time to be off for bed.”

“But I’m not tired,” she replied innocently as he pulled her to her feet.

She babbled nonsensically as the bemused man pulled her along, never letting him get a word in edgewise. Another day, another time, another _person_ and the situation would have been truly hilarious—how often did one so serious get so utterly smashed?—but, alas, it was as it was. The girl clung to his arm as she never would have when sober. She was also much clumsier than usual, nearly tripping and falling several times, and her sudden appreciation of all things “shiny” made Reaver worry for the décor of his poor mansion. That aside, it was very _tempting_ to push his luck and see if he could possibly get a little extra _enjoyment_ from the situation. But the ceaseless prattle was beginning to wear on Reaver’s, admittedly short, nerves.

And it didn’t help that the Princess had never looked more like a child…which was really _very_ unattractive.

Reaver, eventually, was able to lead her into their room, silently wishing she would just go to sleep so she would _shut up_. The Princess promptly fell over as he tried to get her to sit on the bed. Nero, who’d spent the entire day asleep on the couch, put his ears down and whined. Reaver was inclined to agree with the collie. _What a nightmare_.

He truly hated being another person’s caregiver…not that he had much of a choice at that moment.

The Princess trailed into silence when he knelt to unlace her boots. There was nothing enticing in his gestures, none of his usual seduction as he undid the laces; he was almost painfully business-like. Still, his touch lingered on her skin when he removed her stockings.

Their eyes met when he pulled her back onto her feet, and the girl’s voice was a sigh as she breathed, “Reaver? I’m the worst excuse for a Hero ever, aren’t I?”

Reaver’s fingers twitched on the buttons of Victoria’s bodice, the only sign of hesitation before he went on with removing it. “Why do you ask?”

He watched his hands as he worked, being careful not to reveal anything he was thinking. The little Princess was treading dangerously close to topics he’d rather not even _think_ about.  Reaver slid the bodice from her shoulders, watching as the material crumpled to the floor in contemplative silence.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Victoria sulked, blinking a few times when her vision swam. “ _I can’t save anyone_. I can’t help Ben. Or the Resistance. I can’t stop you or Logan. I let down Walter and Jasper and anyone who _ever_ had faith in me. I…I think _I killed Elliot_. Everything I do goes bad. Dad must hate me.”

As she rambled on, Reaver had undressed her further. Secrets, he knew from experience, were generally _good_ things; big or small they were deliciously destructive and entirely useful. However, this? _This_ was too odd even for him. Who’d known not being able to stop his favourite game would break her down? But broken people were useless if you did nothing to make sure they built themselves back up. And Reaver had no desire to live with a bore…again. “Are you aware, Princess,” he murmured almost under his breath as he pulled the pins from her hair, “that you are an _extremely_ depressing drunk?”

Victoria sighed exhaustedly, offering neither help nor hindrance to the man stripping her down. “And _you_ hate me.”

 _That_ gave Reaver pause. Hate her? There were times, he would admit, when he found her annoying or a dull pedant, but _hate_? That was a little _too_ far, wasn’t it? Something prickled naggingly at the back of his mind. Or…was it?

“I can see it in your eyes, sometimes,” she continued on heedlessly, her words stumbling over each other as she, fumbling, took over removing her corset. “Why do you hate me?”

“Go to sleep, Princess,” he told her exasperatedly. He didn’t have an answer to that particular question, and it was best to just ignore it.

For a moment, it looked as if she’d do as he asked. Victoria crawled into the overlarge bed and burrowed under the blankets to stare at him with wide, unfocused little-girl eyes. Reaver had to roll his eyes at the innocence of it all. _Strange girl_.

Victoria caught his wrist as he turned to go, and, innocently, said, “You’re not gon’ leave, are you?”

He stared at her a long moment, trying to discern if she meant leave the room, the house, or…or what? Where would he go, anyway? “Not tonight.”

“Good.” She let go of his wrist and curled up even further. “I don’t want to be alone. Daddy was alone and Albion murdered him. I don’t want them to kill me too, just yet.”

She closed her eyes, leaving that surprisingly morbid statement to wash over Reaver. It left an uncomfortable feeling behind on his skin. Eventually, he knew, he would have to decide if he wanted to ask her about that statement one day and find out if she meant exactly what Victoria had sounded like she’d meant. Reaver also wanted to know when he’d stopped thinking of her as “the Princess” and started thinking of her as “Victoria”. He’d have to remedy that. For now…for now, he wanted rest.

Victoria opened her eyes as Reaver left. Her expression much too sober for her earlier behaviour, she frowned as she watched him go. With a sigh, she rolled over and fell asleep.

~ * ~

 _She stood at the edge of Bowerstone Market, staring up at the castle’s lights, shining in the night. At the far end of the bridge before her laid a sea of soldiers clad in violet and silver. Though such a sight was enough to frighten most of those who looked upon it, she stood strong and, almost, fearless. Walter stood to her right and Page to her left, and she was confident that, with them beside her, she could survive the coming onslaught. The fighting began swiftly, spilling over the bridge and through the city streets in a wave of violence and bloodshed. All Victoria could focus on was the clashing of swords and the constant_ boom _of gunfire around her; somehow, in the chaos, she managed to focus on keeping alive. Then Page cried out in warning. Victoria glanced up just in time to see a grenade roll slowly into a nearby cache of gun powder. The Princess backpedalled as fast as she could, but failed to get clear in time. The blast sent her flying into a nearby alleyway. Ears ringing and body aching, she slowly pulled herself to her feet with a groan…and froze as she spotted a dark figure lurking in the shadows across from her—a figure that most certainly did not look like it was a soldier._

_“Who are you?” she managed after a moment, unsure whether to be on her guard or not._

_“Don’t you see?” it enquired in response. It was at her side in an instant, turning her with deathly cold hands to stare at the ongoing battle. Not just to see the fighting, but the countless dead that lay almost everywhere she looked on. Still more were falling by the second. “Is this_ really _the revolution you wanted?”_

Victoria woke with a start the next morning, though she didn’t want to and almost immediately rolled over in an attempt to go back to sleep. While her head didn’t exactly ache, it did feel rather strange and lethargy seemed to have seeped into her bones. It wasn’t until she realised that her fuzzy, warm blanket was _breathing_ , that she jolted up in alarm.

Nero thumped his tail sleepily at her before hiding his head under the nearest pillow with a sigh. Victoria gave him a pat, wondering when and _how_ he’d been able to get in bed with her. It was around then that she realised they were alone. Reaver was nowhere to be seen. She yawned and looked at Nero. “Should we get up, love?”

The collie whined under the pillow (which Victoria suspected was actually Reaver’s).

Victoria sat up, deciding to face the day and deal with the consequences of the previous night. Groggily, she swung her legs over the side of the bed, shivering when the cool air hit them…only to pause when something caught her eye.

There was a box on the bedside table that had never been there before. It was an odd box, too: hexagonal in shape, small, and made of some strange metal that wasn’t native to Albion. Victoria had seen nothing like it before. As cautiously as possible, she picked up the box, noting a scrap of thick parchment on top, and curiously unfurled it.

_V,_

_In case you have need of it._

Her eyes trailed over the unfamiliar handwriting, noting the way each letter had been stylized. It puzzled her, for neither Logan nor Reaver nor anyone else that she knew—or, at the very least, none of them whose hand writing she’d seen—wrote in the same style of the note.

“Just in case?” she echoed, both intrigued and worried. She dropped the paper onto the blankets beside her before fiddling with the tiny lock on the box. After a moment, she got it and hesitantly opened the box…only to nearly drop _that_ , as well.

Inside, without any further explanation, was her guild seal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kisses make everything better...no? What? What do you mean they don't? Someone get me a refund, please....  
> (Also friendly PSA to not tight-lace your corsets unless your used to them. Please be safe. No one wants to get hurt just for pretty undergarments...or so I hope. Also, if you guys want me to use Tumblr to keep you informed of stuff happening with this fic and its sequel(s), please let me know.)


	8. Secrets

Like the air before a storm, her Will was charged. It crackled through the air, frizzing her hair slightly in the static charge it emitted. It flowed through her veins, both hot and cold as it pushed and seared through the tiny passageways; every blood cell seemed inflamed, burst into bloom by this strange, new force. The energy, the Will, coalesced around her hands, illuminating every line and crease of her skin in an otherworldly glow.

_Just a little further._

The glow intensified, bathing the library around her in an eerie blue-white light. An ominous crackle rent the still air. The energy around her hands was beginning to solidify. White streaks shot through the strange blue light as the air around her continued to crackle and pop.

_A little more._

Sweat beaded on her brow. Her nerves were stretched and her body ached. The longer she pulled on her Will, the more it wore on her. She’d never felt anything like it before, but she couldn’t stop now that she was so close.

_Now!_

The energy was released. Will tore through the air, bolts of lightning that raced across space to their target. Her Will slowly began to ebb and the spell faded into nothingness, leaving only the faintest tingle of static in its wake. The little disk that had been her target was unaffected.

Victoria groaned and dropped her head to the slightly scorched table. She’d really thought it would work this time. In the four weeks since her seal had returned to her possession, she’d been trying to get the guild seal to actually work. It wasn’t going well. Spells didn’t affect it. Her usual way of contacting the Sanctuary failed. Nothing touched that damned, _damned_ seal.

She glared at it out of the corner of her eye, not deigning to lift her head. It was incredibly aggravating…even more so now that she finally was getting her Will under control. There had to be something, though. Something that would reawaken the seal that she could do. After all, why else did…whomever sent it to her ensure that she got it? There had to be a reason…right?

Nero’s ears perked up and he gave a low growl from his spot on the floor, alerting her a couple seconds before the library door opened. Victoria didn’t bother to turn towards it, instead choosing to simply listen as a good deal of rustling and whispering came from the doorway before someone finally cleared their throat.

“ _Yes?_ ” Victoria called, still without lifting her head. She moved slightly to stare at her hand when it suddenly cracked with energy for a split second. _Huh…interesting._

“Ma’am,” Ella said politely, though a bit briskly. Something in her bearing seemed a bit more…stressed than usual when Victoria finally turned toward her. “Ma’am, dinner is served.”

The Princess nodded slowly, her brown eyes fixed on the servant behind Ella; she didn’t recognize him, but he seemed almost _giddy_ about seeing her. “Thank you. I will be done in a moment.”

Ella curtsied politely and hurriedly ushered the boy behind her out of the room. Just before the door closed, Victoria caught an excited “I told you she was a Hero!”

She shook her head. _Peasants_ , she thought and then winced. _No_ , she corrected herself. _People. Just people looking for someone to save them._ Pity everyone thought she could do it. Pity she couldn’t even save herself. _Why did I_ ever _want to be a Hero?_ she wondered, casting a dark look at the strangely silent guild seal before her as if everything bad that had ever happened was entirely its fault.

“What do you think, Nero?” she asked, leaning down to pet her collie.

Nero’s lovingly vacant expression was somehow more serious than usual, his eyes moving between his mistress and the door. He raised his head from his paws, whining all the while, to nudge her hand with his cool, wet nose. Once his mistress was scratching his ears, he thumped his tail a couple times in contentment. Victoria smiled. Life _had_ to be good if you were a dog.

“ _That_ is _exactly_ what I thought. Let’s go eat,” she told him as she attached her guild seal to her belt.

Nero leapt to his feet and eagerly wagged his tail, almost dancing in excitement. He followed his quietly thoughtful mistress through the nearly empty hallways, panting slightly and never getting ahead of her, even when she paused in the door to the dining room.

Victoria slowly sat down in her chair, feeling awkward. She was alone at the table, again; Reaver’s usual seat remaining markedly empty. It felt very odd, sitting in the big, empty dining room with only the decorations around her for company. Odd, because she was usually _never_ alone at the table, if only because Reaver usually missed neither a meal nor an opportunity to poke jabs at her. And yet, she realised, and yet he, with growing frequency, _was_. He had always been a light sleeper with the tendency to get out of bed and find something else to do when he awoke, usually waking her in the process; however, lately when he woke in the night, he was gone from the room before her half-asleep mind could process it (some nights he didn’t sleep at all). Most of the questions and comments she directed at him fell on inattentive ears, never receiving a reply or any recognition—and, those that did, only received a response that didn’t seem to have his heart in it. It was with increasing rarity that she found him alone, and, far rarer, adequately sober enough to even consider asking what was going on with him. And, the few times she came across him where he was either, he seemed strangely restless and lost in thought.

She fed Nero a scrap from her plate and tried to return her attention to her meal. It shouldn’t have mattered _how_ Reaver was acting and she knew it. But her mind kept catching on him as the memory of kissing him intruded on her every quiet, unoccupied moment. The way his lips and hands had felt and the way it felt to be caught in a moment—to think of nothing and be lost in sensation. Her stomach twisted as though she was ill and Victoria cursed Reaver as she fed Nero another bite.

She shouldn’t have kissed him back. _Stop dwelling on it!_ She sighed and, scowling at her plate, made herself focus on nothing but her dinner. Victoria wondered what it would be like to have a quiet life.

~ * ~

After dinner and a quick change into something more comfortable than her dinner attire, Victoria retired to the parlour, intent on finding something to relax and take her mind off of the current situation. As it happened, she found that the parlour had also been Reaver’s hiding place all day and he’d still not left it. At first, she was content to ignore him and pretend he wasn’t there at all. Then it started to bother her, the fact that he was ignoring her so entirely, as well. She was tired of being alone. Tired of not being able to talk to anyone without the fear that her words would be repeated to Logan. Tired of being treated like she was some errant child without any real sense of being beyond a desire to “cause trouble”. And so, remembering the thought she’d had so long ago of trying to convince Reaver to join her side, she started talking about everything her research of the law had yielded and what she was hoping to do with that knowledge. And, an hour later, she was still at it.

“I may not have sufficient evidence for an argument, but the clauses, when applied, are more than enough reason for him to—you aren’t listening to me, are you?”

Victoria fixed Reaver, who was in the midst of writing something into a small, leather-bound book, an exasperated look. How was she supposed to convince him to help her if he couldn’t even listen to her?

“I _am_ listening,” he replied, the distracted tone of his voice convincing her that it was a lie.

She was sick of being ignored. She crossed the sitting room and pushed the book down, leaning forward so she was eye-level with him. “Reaver, I don’t appreciate being ignored.”

Reaver finally looked at her, a hint of lasciviousness in his slowly growing smirk. “I’m listening _intently_.” When Victoria had backed up, realizing she had given him an unparalleled view down the front of her blouse, he added, “Not that I see a point in all of your plotting.”

“No point?!” she echoed indignantly. Victoria had barely sat down in the chair across from Reaver’s and had to restrain herself from leaping up again. “How can you _possibly_ think there’s no point to fighting this?”

“Yes,” he replied boredly, writing in his little book again. “You _do_ realise that everything you attempt to use—every clause, every law—the King _will_ dispute, don’t you?”

“Then either I need a solid case, or _you_ can convince him to call it off, if you’re so clever.”

He laughed outright at her, making no effort to hide it. “Me?” Still chortling, he, mindful of the still-wet ink, set the book and pen aside. “My _dear_ , naïve girl, even if I walked up to your brother and told him I no longer wanted to marry his mad—”

“ _Mad?!_ ”

“—strumpet of a sister, he’d not halt the wedding,” Reaver told her as if she’d never interrupted him in the first place. His tone reminded her of someone talking to a small child. “As such, I do _not_ see a point in your continued attempts at sabotage.”

Victoria thought on his words for a moment as she took a sip of tea. It was _wonderful_ ; the tea, that was. Sweet, light, and somewhat flowery, it reminded her of a perfume; the smell seemed to linger within her long after she took a drink. She closed her eyes to savour it and leaned her head back against the armchair’s headrest, trying to focus on nothing but her thoughts. “Then, as soon as we’ve married, I’ll accuse you of adultery and call for a divorce. Incest, bigamy, and excessive cruelty are three sure-fire ways for a woman to get one, right? I’m sure I could find people willing to truthfully testify you’ve engaged in at least two of those…probably with the same few persons.  If enough people came forward, Logan would have no choice but to listen.”

Victoria opened her eyes and blinked. She could find no words to describe the look Reaver had fixed her with, but the look quickly turned shrewd. They both knew she had a point and was probably correct about at least one of those clauses.

“Oh, yes. How _industrious_ of you…and how bloody _annoying_. I’ve no intention of being your scapegoat, Princess. Do you _ever_ even learn, I wonder?”

“What do you mean?” Victoria enquired, choosing to ignore the insult in favour of possibly getting some help.

Reaver took a sip from a wine glass Victoria hadn’t previously noticed before observing the burgundy-coloured liquid within. “You’re working entirely too hard to complicate everything when you would do well to simplify it.” He turned his dark eyes from the glass to her, and, seeing that he had her utmost attention, he continued on. “Your brother is counting on you to complain and fight this, but still go through with it like a _good little girl_. Because of that, he still has his guard up. He is _expecting_ any sort of discourse you may throw at him and he _will_ see through _every_ little attempt you make…so you might consider doing the _opposite_.”

“You mean…I should… _play nice_ with him?” Victoria enquired slowly.

Reaver set his glass down. “I would think you would be _marvellous_ at it, judging by your behaviour as of late.”

She flushed, recalling her failed attempts at acting as though Reaver didn’t faze her, but was too interested in the conversation to condemn his comment. “So you’re expecting me to suddenly write to Logan and tell him, ‘Oh, my dearest brother, I’ve had a change of heart. I’m madly in love with the bane of my existence! Whatever can I do to repay you for pairing us together?’ Or something along those lines, right?”

Reaver looked amused, but whether it was because of her overly girly, overly romantic faux-proclamation of undying love or because he’d been promoted to being the bane of her existence, Victoria was unsure. “Not _exactly_ in those words…and perhaps not so _soon._ ”

“But you _do_ think I should fool him into thinking I’m alright with this?” Victoria’s mind lingered on when she’d first lied and told Logan she consented to the engagement.

“In a word? Yes.”

Victoria hesitated. “But…I’d be lying. Again. Isn’t that…I don’t know, _wrong_?”

Reaver smirked like a devil as he reached for his wine glass again. “There is no right or wrong when it comes to self-preservation.”

She thought about that as she stared at the aromatic, pale brown tea in her hands. Victoria was uncomfortable with the lie—uncomfortable with the thought that immoral things were justifiable in any situation where one had to save themself. _But what else can I do but try?_ She inclined her teacup toward him as if for a toast. “To self-preservation?”

Still smirking, Reaver gave her a long, sideways look before inclining his own glass toward her. “Self-preservation.”

~ * ~

To Victoria’s amazement, Reaver’s suggestion had turned out to work exceptionally well. Logan began to back off and became less forceful as Victoria attempted to make her correspondences less angry and increasingly contented. Every letter made her feel guilty. But then she would think of Ben—locked away in a cell somewhere, suffering untold horrors because of her own mistakes—and Elliot, cold and _dead_ for wanting to help others, and her guilt would fade.

Reaver had been wrong, she decided. This _was_ a war. Well-hidden and psychological as it mainly was at that moment, it was _still_ a war. And it still held the possibility of killing a great many people. Victoria struggled to plan her moves ahead of time, but, unlike her brother, she was no great strategist. She let instinct guide her, no matter how bad of a situation it put her in. Which, she had to admit, sometimes was a wee bit of a problem.

The dull ticking of a clock added a nice touch of monotony to the background of her thoughts. Victoria had left Nero to nap in the bedroom and had decided to simply think and wander the halls. Reaver’s house was good for wandering, she’d long since discovered, especially now that it was nearly fully furnished.

Her wooden-soled slippers made hardly a sound against the floors as she walked, slowly leaving the occupied areas of the mansion. She was venturing into a part of the house she had never before seen and, looking around, she would admit that it made her a bit nervous. Victoria had seen Reaver vanish down these halls before, but that didn’t _really_ inspire any manner of confidence. She couldn’t imagine what could be down there.

The answer to that query, she quickly found, was more rooms. A _lot_ more rooms. Victoria tried a few doors here and there, but all of them seemed to be either locked or only hiding mostly empty rooms from view. Every once in a while, she’d come across a bedroom or a sitting room, but they were furnished to the bare minimum, clearly not actual guest rooms. When she reached the end of the hall, she paused. There were two doors left before the hall branched off, and, after a moment of thought, she picked the door with sunlight showing through the crack at the bottom.

A smile crept over her face at the number of glass cases lining the walls. Her curiosity piqued and pulled her into the room, prompting her to quickly shut the door behind her when the door to the room she’d chosen to ignore swung open as well. Victoria held still, barely daring to breathe, as almost cheerful footsteps headed away from her room.

When the hall was once again silent, ignoring her growing feeling of trepidation, she set to moving about the room.

The glass cabinets gleamed in the pale, late afternoon sunlight, but it was the objects within them that _really_ caught her fancy. Fragile and arcane amulets rested on old cushions. Rough-hewn sculptures of foreign gods and dignitaries rose up proudly. A slotted, bronze pyramid-shaped box cast a warm glow on the objects nearest it, while a jewel-encrusted compass sparkled with multi-facetted light in the rays of the winter sun. Some sort of animal skull sat atop a small, nearly flat oaken chest. Victoria also caught sight of an old pistol that looked to be in a state of disuse, judging by the odd dent in its side.

She knelt down on the floor to see inside the bottom of one cabinet, smoothing down the black and sage coloured fabric of her dress as she did so, and found a reason to open the case’s door. There was a strange pouch in the corner; small, made of red velvet and gold drawstrings, but those were common enough features to not label it strange. No, what made it strange was that every object in every case was covered in a fine layer of dust, showing they were cleaned just often enough to be viewed by people, but not often enough that they were completely spotless. The pouch, however, was _not_ dusty. In fact, as Victoria noticed when she leaned in closer, the dust around it was disturbed as if someone had hastily shoved the pouch in there to keep it out of sight.

Victoria carefully eased the door open. Slowly, so as not to accidentally knock into anything inside, she reached for the pouch. It was strangely cold to the touch and an unexpected flicker of despair went through her when her fingers met whatever hard, palm-sized object lay hidden within. She was just about to pull the pouch out and look inside when a pair of good-naturedly conversing voices reached her ears.

She quickly jerked her hand back as though burned. As the footsteps of those speaking approached, she leapt to her feet and silently closed the cabinet door. The pouch was left where it lay, and was all but forgotten about.

Victoria stood as still as one of Reaver’s statues by the door, waiting for the hall to be clear so she could leave without being seen or questioned. Another door was opened and she recognized one of the voices as Reaver’s. Their voices were quickly muffled and she poked her head out into the hall. She was immensely relieved that it was now empty.

She pulled the door open, and, after a sudden thought, pulled her slippers off. She padded, barefoot, out into the hall. Her footsteps made not a sound on either the tile or the carpets and she went to hide in another part of the house. Or…she would have, anyway, had she not heard Logan’s name.

“That bastard Logan still giving you trouble?” an unfamiliar voice asked.

The Princess froze in surprise, not so much at his words but at his _tone_. Not even among the Resistance’s members had she ever heard such a tone of utmost disrespect and antipathy for her brother. Not even Page spoke about him in such a way. Despite her less than perfect relationship with Logan, he was still family and, because of that, the man’s voice simultaneously made her skin crawl and her blood boil. She wanted _dearly_ to walk into the room and slap the mystery man. However, she was keenly aware that she would be noticed and, more than likely, would end up in some manner of a fight if she did.

“In a manner of speaking.” Reaver said the words almost delicately, as if he didn’t wish to push the matter either way and didn’t think it was wise to keep speaking on this subject.

Victoria found herself inching toward the slightly open door. She caught sight of a comfortable-looking study and a mirror at the opposite end of the room, and she crouched down to avoid being spotted within it. She still held her now forgotten slippers in her hands.

“But you’re still set to marry that bint, aren’t you?”

“My engagement to _the Princess_ is ongoing, yes.” Reaver sounded even more careful, as if he knew he was being mocked, found it intolerable, but had to tolerate it for some unknown reason. Personally, Victoria thought the other man was a fool for ignoring the warning in Reaver’s voice. She knew from experience that people didn’t just toy with Reaver and walk away from it unscathed.

She also purposely ignored what he’d just called her, reminding herself of what would happen if she revealed that she was eavesdropping on their conversation. _Not worth it. Not worth it_.

“But she—?”

There was a very pregnant pause in which Victoria, who could barely see into the study, was sure a warning look had been thrown the man’s way.

“I _wouldn’t_ describe her in such terms, myself,” Reaver told him with finality. Then, all cordialness replaced with a strictly business tone, he added, “Not that it isn’t a _pleasure_ to see you, my _dear_ Droogan, but _why_ are you here?”

The other man, Droogan, also changed his posture, becoming almost aggressive with his attitude. “It’s not working.”

“Patience.”

“‘ _Patience_ ’?! I paid you well for those thugs, Reaver. _Very_ well. And what has it gotten me to show for it? _Three villages_. I _should_ own half of Albion, by now.”

“Again, I ask only for your patience. I understand your need to move forward, but it would not be in your best interest to do so…and, frankly, it would be a waste of my time and money.”

“How so?”

Droogan didn’t sound like he was going to make this easy and Reaver sighed as though he were talking to an idiot, which he probably truly felt like he was doing. “There are rebels running through the streets of Albion and the King is on the watch for _any_ signs of unrest. Do you _really_ think a _warlord_ would escape his notice?”

Victoria’s heart seemed to pause a beat. This Droogan bloke was a _warlord_ and was _paying Reaver_ to help him? _Oh, bloody_ hell _, this_ can’t _be good._

“Even if that’s true, the _deal_ was that I paid for them to act on _my_ terms. And if they don’t, _I don’t pay_.”

“Then feel free to withdraw your payment, dear Droogan, and I’ll withdraw my men.”

Droogan, for the first time, was quiet as though he was stricken by the weight of Reaver’s very blunt threat. The silence grew, and it was obvious Droogan was waiting for Reaver to break it. It was also obvious, to Victoria, that Reaver was more than happy with letting Droogan sit there, stewing in his own incompetence.

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“ _Really_?” came the patronizing reply.

“I want you to speed things along. I don’t care that you’re leaving Albion soon. Speed things up. You’ll get your gold.”

 _Since_ when _is he leaving Albion?!_ the Princess thought, nearly falling over from her crouch in surprise. She thought over his behaviour lately—the lack of focus and interest in what was happening around him, the way he always seemed busy when she was able to speak with him—and wondered if him leaving had something to do with it. The real question, however, was _why_ he was leaving.

“The best gambling may be done with a partner, warlord,” Reaver said companionably, “but a gamble never pays off without a risk.”

Whatever Reaver meant, it went right over Victoria’s head. Droogan, however, seemed to have gotten it for he awkwardly proclaimed that some things were just too big of a risk.  As they wrapped things up, Victoria became aware, once again, of just how bad it would look if she were caught spying on a conversation that was…well… _treasonous_ came easily to mind. It wasn’t as though she would actually tell Logan, but Droogan didn’t seem like the type of man who would listen to reason.

Alarmed, she looked down the hall she’d come from to find there was a distinct lack of cover. She could hide in one of the rooms, yes, but there was no guarantee that one of the men would not check them for eavesdroppers. The hall she’d yet to look in had a turn in it. If she could get to it before the men exited the room, she could possibly be safe.

Movements slightly frantic in her worry, she stood and made her way down the hall. Just as she was nearing the bend, she heard the study door open. Victoria flung herself around the corner…and tripped. She threw out her arms to catch a hold of a nearby suit of armour. Her hands had fastened around the gauntlets when, to her horror, the entire suit seemed to move down with her.

And then, with a very faint _click!_ , the suit stopped moving.

She stood there, half fallen over and clutching the cold armour for one utterly confused second. Hearing voices approaching, she straightened up, ignoring the strange suit of armour, and looked for cover. It was about then that she noticed a bit of wall panelling had slid aside to reveal a dark hole.

The voices were closer now. Victoria didn’t have time to ponder the sudden appearance of a well-hidden, highly convenient door. She snatched her slippers off the floor, and, without a moment to spare, dove into the darkness.

In hindsight, it might have been better had she not.


	9. Half-breed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chappie's layout is a little strange. Things may also start getting heated in the coming chapters. Bear with me, please. ;)

_Sparrow had always been fond of telling stories, though never ones about himself. In light of that, there had been one story of his that Victoria had latched onto with particular fierceness. As a child, Victoria had asked for it again and again from everyone who knew of the tale—and who could tell a decent story—to tell her it. Unsurprisingly, other than her father’s version, Walter’s telling quickly became her favourite. It went a little something like this:_

_Once, in a far off Kingdom, there lived a greedy miller who sought to make himself more important. One day, he bought himself an audience with the King and declared that his beautiful daughter could spin straw into gold. The King was pleased by this, for his own greed greatly exceeded that of the miller’s. The King had the girl brought before him, and, locking her away in a room full of straw and a single spinning wheel, declared that she would spin_ all _of the straw into gold by the morning, or she would be executed._

_When the King was gone, the girl began to weep, for she did not know how to spin straw into gold. In the midst of her weeping, a small man appeared before her. He knew how to fulfil the King’s task. However, before he would begin, he wanted payment for his help. And so the girl gave him the ring from her finger, and so the man sat and spun the straw._

~ * ~

Victoria didn’t know how long she stood there with the darkness pressing in on her. The panelling had slid closed behind her when she’d dove into the darkened room, hiding her from view, but the problem was that it had also blocked out all sound from the rest of the house. There was a distinct lack of light in her little hiding place, and, no matter how hard she tried, she could not find the lever to reopen the hidden door. She couldn’t get out. If she had _any_ faith in her control of her fireball spell, she would have tried to create one just for the light. As it was, she was sure she’d probably blow a hole in the wall if she tried.

Cold air swirled around her bare feet and she shivered as her skin erupted with gooseflesh. As she bent to replace her slippers on her feet, she noticed there wasn’t a wall behind her. Was this place bigger than it seemed? Shoes back on, she cautiously edged forward, hoping for a way out.

She took a step and her foot fell through the air. Her heart lodged itself in her throat as her stomach dropped out and— _and where is the floor?!_ Victoria thought, panicking _._ For a moment, she thought she was going to keep falling, and then her foot hit stone and she suddenly stopped. As her heart slowly returned to beating its normal rhythm, she silently cursed Reaver. Who, by Avo, didn’t make sure _stairs_ were lit? _I’m lucky I didn’t break my neck_.

She held onto the stone walls as she, even more cautiously, descended the stairs. It grew colder the further she walked, and the air grew heavy and thick with some oppressive feeling. Victoria also became aware of an odd smell as the stairs slowly grew lighter. It was the musky, animalistic smell of fur and offal and things Victoria would probably rather not consider and, as far as she was concerned, it was an extremely odd place for such a smell to be lingering.

The stairs came to an abrupt end at a small antechamber lit by a single torch. Victoria thought she died a little inside when she realised there wasn’t just one path leading away from the room, but many. _Did he_ have _to make this place like a giant maze?_ As she stood there, carefully contemplating which corridor to take (after all, who knew what Reaver had lurking under his home), a soft sound reached her ears. A sound that was kind of like sobbing.

“Hello?” Victoria called nervously. Her voice echoed around her. “Is someone there?”

She received no answer.

She found the corridor from which the sobbing seemed to be coming from and slowly made her way down it. The animal smell grew stronger. Victoria, once again, found herself creeping along in darkness, and the hallway seemed even longer than the stairs. As she walked, a faint light came into view at the end of her path and she hurried to reach it. What she saw when she did made her want to run back the way she’d come.

Cages lined the walls and inside them, packed three to five a cage, were the monsters of nightmares. Victoria had seen nothing like them before and, as such, knew neither what to call them nor how to react. They weren’t balverines, that she could be reasonably certain of; though thick patches of fur _were_ visible through their extremely frayed clothing and their claws and fangs looked positively lethal. Something about their sickly grey skin reminded her of hobbes, but hobbes were small and squat and these things…these things were tall and stood like humans. Victoria felt a surge of pity through her fear. They _had_ been human. And then anger replaced her pity. What. The _fuck_. Was. Reaver _doing_. To them?

The beings, however, were paying her no mind as she observed them. Some sat crouched in their cells as others paced on all fours. Still others were fighting with each other, emitting somewhat unnerving snarls and growls as they did so. Pity for them aside, Victoria was glad they were in cages. She didn’t want to have to fight them and see what those claws could do to her.

Absently rubbing at the scar stretching across her face, she stepped further into the room. She could still hear sobbing; now that she was closer, however, the sorrowful noise sounded like it was coming from the other side of the chamber and, nervous, she walked toward it. It was a struggle to appear calm and confident as she anticipated something terrible waiting for her there.

As it turned out, she was almost entirely wrong. It wasn’t a fearsome creature awaiting her. It was only a man.

~ * ~

_The King was pleased when he discovered the room he’d placed the miller’s daughter in was now full of spindles of spun gold. His greed gripping him, he took her to an even larger room full of even more straw. Again he instructed her to spin all of the straw or she would face certain death. And, again, in his absence she began to weep for surely this time she would be found out. But, as with the previous night, the little man appeared before her._

_“I will spin this straw for you,” he said. “But what will you give me in return?” And so she gave him her necklace, and so he spun the straw._

~ * ~

“Hello?” Victoria called tentatively.

The sobbing abruptly stopped. The man leapt to his feet, horror in his eyes behind the weariness that seemed to pour from him. Scars crisscrossed his bare chest like a shirt, fresh welts overlapping the old ones. His dirty blond hair was shaggy and, for some reason, he reminded her of someone she knew—someone _important_ ; she just couldn’t think of _whom_.

“What are you doing here?”

Victoria hesitated at the roughness and urgency in the man’s voice.  She tried to keep her tone soothing as she replied, “I—I thought I heard someone crying.”

“You shouldn’t be down here,” he said.

It took Victoria a moment to realise his brusqueness wasn’t born of rudeness but of fear. “Why shouldn’t I be down here? Aside from the obvious, of course.”

“You’re _her_ , aren’t you? The one we were told not to touch. The others don’t have any self-control. They’ll tear you to shreds.”

“I—” Victoria hesitated, trying to quell the fear rising in her gut. The urge to run was growing stronger, battling the Heroic urge to help. “How do you know about me? Who are you?”

He looked taken aback that she actually cared to ask. “William. My name is William, and…we just _know_ things. I don’t know _how_ we do, we just _do_.”

“You answer to Reaver, don’t you?” When William nodded at her, Victoria added, “Then there must be a way I can help you.” She reached for his cage door. “Look—”

“No!” William yelped, grabbing her wrist with surprising strength before she could reach it. “You really shouldn’t do that.”

It was then that Victoria realised all of the creatures had stopped what they were doing and were staring directly at her. And she hoped it was only her imagination that quite a few of them looked like they were hungry.

“Run,” William said, entire body tense again.

“But they’re ca— _oh_.” Victoria’s eyes widened as one of the creatures pushed their, obviously unlocked, cage door open. “Oh no.”

“ _Run_ ,” William insisted again, moving purposely toward his own door.

Victoria began to back towards the way she came. “What about you?”

“ _Go!_ ”

Victoria ran. She wanted to turn and see what was snapping and crackling behind her, but running was suddenly _really_ important to her. She skidded to a stop as, inhumanly fast, a pair of creatures leapt in front of her. She wondered if this was it, the end for her. No weapons, very little Will ability, and she was stuck in the basement of Reaver’s home with a bunch of mysterious creatures who wanted to devour her flesh. There was irony there, she just knew it even if she couldn’t quite see it in that moment.

But then, just as Victoria was expecting to be ripped in half by monstrous claws, a piercing howl rang out.

Everything in the room froze. The creatures in front of her took a couple steps back, directing a series of yips and bark-like noises at someone (or _thing_ ) behind her. An angry snarl was their answer, and Victoria slowly turned to see what was standing behind her. She quickly had to step back. It was huge, larger than the others; its yellow eyes tracked the others’ movements and he snapped when they got too close.

“Get…out…” he breathed with difficulty.

“ _William?_ ”

One of the creatures decided to question William’s authority and it flung itself at them. William caught hold of it and tossed it aside like a rag doll. Victoria took that as her cue to run.

The sage fabric of her dress was constantly attempting to tangle in her feet and made it difficult to run, but she didn’t stop. She quickly became lost in the labyrinth of tunnels, running through darkness and light alternatively. She tried to follow the coldest of tunnels, trusting that those would lead her outside. After what felt like ages, the sounds of William and his fellows faded as did their smell. She felt bad about leaving William behind, but knew, realistically, it was unavoidable. There was no way he could come with her and that both of them would make it out alive.

Her legs grew tired, her muscles sore, and her lungs burned with every breath. Victoria didn’t stop running, though. She could feel the frigid air shifting slightly, indicating she was close to a way out.

Light was peeking through around a rectangle of darkness far ahead of her and her heart skipped a beat. _A door!_ Reenergized by the thought of leaving, Victoria pushed herself to run faster. She reached the door, fumbling with the lock before getting it open, and burst out into the snow. She closed it behind her and turned to run back around to the front door…

…only to crash directly into Reaver.

~ * ~

_The King rejoiced once more at the sight of all the spun gold. But his greed was insatiable, and he had the girl brought to the largest straw-filled room yet. This time, when he instructed her to spin the straw, he did not promise her death for failure. Instead, he proclaimed that, if she were successful, she would become his wife._

_The little man appeared before the miller’s daughter as soon as the King was gone, but, this time, she had nothing to give him. But the man had a solution and the girl was desperate, and so, as he sat down at the spinning wheel, the girl promised away her first-born child._

~ * ~

Victoria tried to back away, but they were too close to the side of the mansion and Reaver had a grip on her arm. Panic, still fresh in her blood from running from the creatures, spiked. She yanked her arm out of his gloved hand and, at the same time, shoved him away from her as hard as she could. His hands got a grip on her once more and she head butted him. He jerked backwards, letting go of her to reach for his face with a soft groan, and Victoria fled. She had only gotten a few feet before she found herself roughly shoved against the wall. Victoria groaned low in her throat as the back of her head collided against the stones and her vision swam. _Ow…._

“Well, well, what a _busy_ little bee you are. I see you survived my half-breeds. How very _clever_ of you.”

It was growing increasingly hard to think properly. Emotion was writhing in her gut, terror and rage battling it out and, behind them both, some odd sensation she had no name for. Even if her emotional state wasn’t utterly distracting, there was still the fact that Reaver had her pinned; his forearm pressing into her shoulder to keep her there and his right hand holding her wrist to the wall by her head so she would not lash out. They were so close together that one intruding on the situation might have thought, if not for Reaver’s increasing ire and Victoria’s growing fear, that their position was one of intimacy. Instead, Victoria had never felt more like she was being demanded to submit to someone in all of her life. She tried to struggle; Reaver simply tightened his grip.

“I—”

“I would suggest you think over your next words _very_ carefully before you say them.”

He was going to kill her. She could see it in his eyes. She’d probably seen the one thing Reaver had _never_ intended her to see, it was the only reason she could think of for such a furious, defensive behaviour. Through her fear, her brain stalled. _Defensive?_

An idea sparked through her mind like wildfire, and Victoria narrowed her eyes challengingly at him. “Well? You want to hurt me, don’t you? Aren’t you going to do it?”

Reaver’s fingers twitched against her wrist, either wanting to go for her throat or his pistol. But, as some of the haze of anger disappeared from those dark eyes, he didn’t move.

“You can’t, can you?” Victoria shot at him triumphantly. “If you touch me, and Logan finds out, it’s _over_ for you. And you _know it_.”

“Bold words, dear Princess, coming from someone _cowering_ behind a sibling that doesn’t want them.”

The words stung as if he’d slapped her and it was a struggle to keep the pain of them from showing on her face. “I am _not_ cowering behind Logan,” she spat, trying to get a decent breath and failing. “I _never_ intended to.”

“Didn’t you?” The faintest bit of surprised curiosity coloured his anger, but, still, he did not let her go.

“Maybe for a second,” she admitted. She finally stopped struggling and went limp. “I figured, as much as Logan probably would like to know you’ve an army of monsters at your disposal, I—I rather thought it was something I should yell at you about.”

Reaver’s expression turned suspicious. “Why? Why not tell the King and end this now? It’s what you desire, isn’t it?”

Victoria attempted to shrug, but, in her current position, it looked more like a strange wiggle. As his temper began to ebb, she found herself starting to calm; maybe she would survive the day, after all. “I don’t know; it just…seemed like what I should do.”

She began to consider that her logic was somewhat flawed on occasion.

Reaver snorted in amusement and let go of her. Victoria, not expecting the sudden movement, crumpled to the snow at his feet. She shivered as she rubbed her aching collarbone; she really wasn’t dressed for sitting in the snow, but she wasn’t about to get up in case Reaver knocked her down again.

He stood before her, one hand on his hip, looking calm and controlled and Victoria couldn’t help but wonder at his mercurial mood shifts. “As much as your discretion is appreciated, _ma belle_ —”

“I’m _not_ above telling him, you know,” Victoria added hastily, not wanting Reaver to think he could just walk all over her because she hadn’t planned on telling Logan.

“—but what are you hoping to _gain_ from it?” Reaver finished, giving her a small, knowing smirk. He knelt down in front of her and held out his hand. “Can you keep a secret, _love_?”

Victoria hesitated. “I want William freed from whatever you’ve done to him.”

He chuckled. “Impossible. William’s humanity is tied to his staying here and receiving carefully monitored treatments. If I released him, the beast would consume him, and you don’t want that, do you?”

The mocking words made her heart sink, and she couldn’t help but feel like he was toying with her. She had absolutely no intention of telling Logan anything for William’s sake (after all, Logan would probably have the half-breeds killed without any care for their previous states), but, now that she had Reaver’s attention, she had another idea in mind. “I want to make a deal with you. Think of it as a business wager.”

She took his hand.

“I was beginning to wonder if you would _ever_ ask.”

He pulled her to her feet.

~ * ~

_In time, the girl became Queen and bore a child. It had been a year since the King had set her task of spinning straw and she had forgotten about her promise._

_Soon, however, the little man appeared before her to collect the child. The Queen was horrified and offered him anything else he could have possibly desired. But he only wanted the child. The Queen despaired and wept, begging him not to take her child. He took pity on her, however, and declared that, if she could but guess his name in three days, he would leave her and her child be. When he left her, the Queen sent out a messenger to find all the names in the land, and spent the rest of the night thinking._

_She spent the entirety of the next day guessing the little man’s name but to no avail. The second day bore the same results, but, early on the third day, the messenger returned to her with news. He had found no new names, but had instead come across a little house where a small man had danced around a large fire, singing, “Today do I bake, tomorrow I brew, the day after that the Queen’s child comes in; and oh! I am glad that nobody knew that the name I am called is Rumpelstiltskin!”_

_The Queen was elated and related this name to the little man, who quickly realised he had been tricked. His anger at this trickery was so great…he tore himself asunder._

~ * ~

He pulled her through the halls, and, for once, Victoria didn’t fight him. Servants got quickly out of their way, looking perplexed. Something had changed; they could feel it and they didn’t want to be around to witness it—Victoria couldn’t blame them, she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to witness what was about to happen herself.

In short order they arrived at Reaver’s study. Victoria looked around curiously at the dark panelled room when Reaver let go of her. Despite all the time she’d spent searching for the room, Victoria had never managed to get inside it before…or even to find it until now. Surreptitiously looking over the papers on Reaver’s desk, she slowly edged into the nearby chair. Reaver, however, took his time to sit. He lingered for a moment behind his desk before, apparently noticing that she was watching him, sitting gracefully across from Victoria.

“There are three things I want from you,” Victoria said before Reaver could say anything.

Reaver was amused. “Anxious, are we?”

“No,” Victoria said truthfully as Reaver put his feet up on the desk. “I just want to say what I have to say before you start twisting my thoughts.”

The look Reaver sent her was frighteningly devious, but he gestured for her to go on.

“I want a weapon,” Victoria told him quickly. When he raised a questioning brow at her, she added, “If I might be eaten just for taking a wrong turn in your home, I think I deserve that much. It is not as though I might attack you and I’m not going to confine myself to the bedroom just for your sake. Nor am I going to actively go looking for trouble, just because there’s something sharp in my hands.”

Reaver looked thoughtful, though Victoria had a feeling that he was indulging his sense of drama as opposed to him actually thinking it over. “I suppose that could be arranged.”

“And—” Victoria hesitated, glancing away for a second, before looking back at him. “I want to go with you.”

“I…beg your pardon?”

It was clearly not something Reaver had _ever_ expected her to ask about, and she flushed in embarrassment. “I—I— _he_ said you were leaving and—and I just—I want to go.”

“ _You_ want to come with _me_ to _Bloodstone_?” Reaver echoed disbelievingly, though he didn’t seem remarkably surprised that she knew about the voyage.

 _Bloodstone? Where’s that?_ she wondered, only vaguely recalling the name from one of Walter’s stories about her father. Still hesitant, Victoria fidgeted, glancing everywhere but Reaver. “Yes.”

This time when Reaver grew thoughtful and quiet, Victoria could tell he was truly thinking over her request. And, just as she was beginning to think he would decline, he quickly replied, “Done. And what _else_ do you desire of me?”

She ignored the flirtation in his voice. “I want a favour; an open-ended one that I can save for a later time. You’re free to change the terms of this favour, but you’re obligated to say yes no matter what I ask.”

“You, Princess, are _certainly_ not afraid of asking for things, are you?” Amusement laced his voice, covering up thinly veiled tension.

“No, I’m not.”

“I assume you think I’m just going to _give_ you my assistance freely.”

Victoria gave him a sweet, innocent smile. “That’s entirely up to you… _love_.”

“I’m afraid I don’t _do_ open-ended favours, dear.  Either tell me what you want _now_ , or come up with something else to ask of me.”

The Princess hesitated once more before saying very quickly, “I’m going to want your help with something one day. Something…a bit too un-Heroic for me to do myself. I’m going to ask that you do it for me without expecting compensation or acknowledgement. What do you say?”

Reaver slowly removed his booted feet from atop the desk. He watched her carefully, clearly intrigued as he looked her up and down. She had him, Victoria could feel it. It was something in the way he stared at her with a mix of fascination and charm. By Avo, if suggesting that she might have to do something along the lines of what he would approve of one day got him on her side…she should have done it sooner.

Slowly, he extended his hand. “We have an accord.”

They shook hands.

“It’s been a _pleasure_ doing business with you.”

~ * ~

_The stories of Victoria’s childhood had always ended with “and they lived happily ever after,” but, even then, she had never believed it. There was no such thing, she knew, as a happy ending. Happy endings were just stories that hadn’t finished yet._


	10. On Night's Tides

The streets of Bowerstone lay dark and silent. The city looked deserted but for the few staggering drunks that were still making their way home and the even fewer guards, standing and freezing at their posts. Dirtied snow lay piled up against houses and in alleyways, pushed out of the streets so people could still get about. Ice formed at the very edges of waterways, held at bay only by the constant boat traffic. Soon, the only lights in the city were those of taverns yet to close and the fires of the homeless that had yet to burn out. Even the gaslights lining the paths were burning low, guttering in every breeze.

A lone carriage rode through the darkness, its shiny black lacquer rendering it nearly invisible in the midnight hour. The driver, wrapped in a thick coat and wide-brimmed hat, didn’t appear to notice the cold; he drove on heedless of the snow. No one noticed their passing.

Victoria, on the other hand, was cold; freezing in the brumal air. A carriage should be warmer, her mind insisted as she snuggled deeper into the warm velvet and fur of her cloak. She was sharing it. The cloak, that is. Nero had burrowed under every bit of fabric Victoria wasn’t hoarding, curling up against her thigh for warmth. Victoria wished that, like Nero, she was asleep. The silence around her was beginning to grow unnerving and she was much too cold for any conversation; ignoring, of course, that just a few hours previous she had been so chatty that she had exhausted her questions to Reaver, before noting his annoyance at the unending interrogation and growing quiet so as not to annoy him any further.

Victoria rubbed her gloved hands together before curling her arms close to her chest and, mindful of her sheathes, she crossed her legs as she stared blearily out the dark, slightly foggy window.

They passed into Industrial, the shops of Bowerstone Market becoming warehouses and run-down homes. Factories rose up, tall and imposing, between buildings to dominate the skyline; black and brooding sentinels against the cloud-laced velvet sky. Gas lights, spread too far apart to be of any real use, burned low here as well, creating tiny islands of light amidst the dark. Victoria saw not a single person on those streets, not even the homeless, and felt a pang of loneliness.

The Resistance was headquartered nearby. Victoria wondered how things were going for them. If they were any closer to overthrowing Logan. If they were crippled by the loss of Ben and herself, or emboldened. Most of all, she missed Walter. He had always been a part of her life, and to be so close to him now without being able to see him or give him a hug or _something_ just seemed unjustly cruel.

But she couldn’t try to go to him and wouldn’t even _consider_ asking Reaver. She could just picture the conversation. _You know those friends of mine who hate you and Logan? Well they’re headquartered nearby. Can we drop by for a moment? I miss them terribly._ Victoria nearly snorted. Yeah. Like _that_ was going happen.

They followed the bends of the inky Bower River and, as they drew nearer the sea, the temperature dropped even further. Victoria took an experimental deep breath, icy air searing her lungs, and frowned at the mist it produced. _Great._

Slowly, the docks rolled into view, and Victoria had to admit that they were creepier than the dead city around them. Unmanned ships bobbed like icebergs in the black water. Crates, barrels, ropes, bundles…all left in heaps as though forgotten for the night. Everything was eerily dark, poorly illuminated by what moonlight there was. She did a double take, raising her head from her hand as she noticed a tiny pinprick of light in the distance. They drew closer and she realised she had been wrong in her assumption that the docks were deserted: a man stood at the edge of one of the piers, apparently alone. Victoria felt a sliver of unease slide through her for the guttering lantern the man stood under gave him a strange, almost ape-like appearance—long, bulky arms and a squat, barrel-shaped body.

“Higgs,” Reaver said cheerfully, making Victoria start in surprise. He ignored her, continuing to look out the window as they approached. “Excellent.”

“We’re finally here?” Victoria yawned, stretching slightly. The cold made her body stiff and she lamented not being able to soak in a hot bath. _There are people here who are homeless. Stop whining._ She uncrossed her legs and straightened up, feeling somewhat abashed. “Not that the cold isn’t doing _wonders_ for keeping me awake, but… _it’s about time_.”

Okay, so maybe crabbiness won out over humility sometimes.

“Trust me, Princess, soon you will wish it were _only_ this cold.”

Victoria nearly groaned. Instead, she set about waking Nero, who, most understandably, did _not_ want to wake up.

The carriage pulled to a stop and the driver opened the door for them. Victoria clambered out, her stiff limbs aching in protest. She couldn’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy when Reaver smoothly departed the carriage with a grace that was simply lost to her. Why did she never look that elegant doing something so simple?

“Still alive, I see, Mr. Higgs,” Reaver called, straightening his coat as he made his way over to Higgs. Victoria followed closely behind him with Nero at her heels.

“Aye, Captain. Not for lacka tryin’, though,” was the gruff reply.  Higgs didn’t look as ape-like as his silhouette had promised. His thick coat explained his barrel chest and his arms only looked long for the sleeves of said coat were much too long for him. Higgs’ most startling quality, however, was his copious amounts of bristly grey facial hair to make up for the fact that he had gone bald beneath his cloth cap.

Victoria was too busy staring blankly at Reaver about him being called “Captain” to notice Higgs’s extremely weatherworn face was creased into a smile. _Captain?_

“Aren’t we all?” Reaver chuckled softly. “Are we ready to cast off?”

“I think so, sir. Lawson’s gettin’ edgy. Says we should be expectin’ a storm.”

“With good reason.” Reaver sounded thoughtful as he looked first from the sea, then to the sky, and finally to Victoria, who could not have given him a look of greater puzzlement if he had suddenly sprouted a second head. “Ah, yes. Shall we get on, then?”

Higgs gave a quick, respectful nod and led the way down the pier. He and Reaver discussed things on the way that Victoria was sure had to do with the ship, but that went right over her head. Which was just as well, because Victoria was unsure if she was expected to help aboard the ship or not.

Victoria slowed and trailed behind the men as they neared the ship. Her brown eyes widened as she looked up and then _continued_ looking up. It was… _huge_. That was the only way Victoria could think to explain it. A scattering of lanterns kept the long deck somewhat illuminated and Victoria could see people hurrying about it. She also caught sight of a couple black shapes moving about the masts and rigging. People were all the way up there? It gave her vertigo just to think of being so high up amongst the lines and canvas with no support.

Feeling nervous and hesitant, Victoria caught up with Reaver and Higgs, the latter of which was sorting out luggage with their driver.

“So,” Victoria began awkwardly, “I guess the rumours are true and you really are a pirate?

“They are,” Reaver replied, thoroughly amused by her nervousness.

Victoria was unsure whether to be excited or worried about that information. She’d been fascinated to learn about pirates as a child, but the thought of being amidst them made her uncomfortable. She wondered how they would react to her. “I…thought it was bad luck for a woman to be aboard.”

Reaver’s smirk turned secretive. “I think the crew will make do.”

There was a double meaning to his words, she was certain, but Victoria didn’t understand it. She had a feeling the joke would be made evident soon enough and so let it slide.

Reaver gestured her up the gangway first and she hurried up—it had been a long time since she was on a ship, and she couldn’t help but be curious how different it would be. Once on deck, she found herself staring about, fascinated by everything that was happening. Reaver’s crew was extremely diverse; some looking like they’d barely come of age and others as though they’d spent their entire lives aboard a ship, some handsome and others so weatherworn and scarred they were mildly frightening. One in particular, the bosun, made her feel particularly meek and defenceless. His head was shaved, his massive body was rippling with muscles; his height was impressive and his smooth, ebony skin was so dark it rivalled Page’s. Victoria noted the whip at his side with apprehension.

As Higgs climbed onto the deck, Victoria caught sight of a lithe, cloaked shadow standing at the wheel. Before she could observe it for very long, the cry of “Captain on deck!” came from Higgs and a chorus of greetings rose from the crew, distracting her.

Victoria stood to the side as they sent forth a flurry of questions and remarks Reaver’s way. He handled it better than Victoria had expected, issuing orders and answering queries with practiced ease. Once everything had calmed down, there was a quick mock-roll call as they rattled off names just in case there was a new member one of the crew had not yet been associated with. Victoria was suspicious that it was more for her benefit, though, as she learned that the dark skinned man answered to Ames Bedeau. She received a surprise shortly after Higgs had announced his name and position as second mate.

“Lawson; first mate,” a voice called. A _woman’s_ voice.

The Princess turned toward the wheel, seeing that the figure had removed their hood to reveal a pretty woman who was decidedly impish.

“ _Kitten_ ,” Reaver said, his tone faintly scolding and completely at odds with the pleased smirk spreading across his lips.

“Welcome back, Cap’n,” Lawson said as though she were a school child up to no good.

Reaver gave her a look that was indecipherable to Victoria, but obviously made loads of sense to Lawson, before issuing orders to cast off. The deck, once more, became a flurry of movement and Victoria stood in the middle of it all as sails were hoisted and they prepared to weigh anchor.

After a few moments, Victoria realised Reaver was no longer at her side. However, despite her not being directly under their captain’s thumb, the crew seemed to neither notice nor care that she was there. She received a couple bids for her to move out of the way, but no dark looks or threats or otherwise malevolent behaviour. _Of course_ , she thought slightly sulkily, _they could all just think I’m Reaver’s little toy and they don’t want to risk his wrath by doing something to me._

“’Ello,” Lawson said from right behind her, her heavily accented voice forcibly cheerful. “Victoria, righ’? I’m off watch, wanna cuppa?”

The petite woman was exceptionally muscular and bristling with energy, her pin-straight, flaming red hair falling out of its various bonds from her constant fidgeting. Her dark brown eyes darted everywhere, completely on alert.

“I—yes, thank you, Ms. Lawson,” Victoria said politely, unsure how to react and aware that she was being moved out of everyone’s way.

The pirate shook her head slowly, leading the way to a door that led below deck. “Don’t bother with titles here, there’s no need for ‘em. ‘S just Lawson. An’ there’s no need for thanks, either; I was told ta watch ya.”

Victoria gave an annoyed huff. “What sort of trouble could I _possibly_ get into on a _ship_?”

“You’d be surprised.”

As they descended below deck, Victoria had the curious sensation of being lowered into a rabbit hole. The walls were close, barely four feet across, and the ceiling so low Victoria had to wonder how people taller than her, which she usually found to be a rarity, could get through without having to duck. The hall’s lighting was questionable as they approached the galley and Victoria could hear the thumping of boots and the muffled shouting of voices from the men above.

“Still,” Victoria admitted, regaining her previous train of thought, “I don’t exactly feel trusted.”

“Ah, but have ya done an’thing to _earn_ trust?”

Victoria opened her mouth to say that _of course_ she had, but stopped herself. _Had_ she? She felt guilty when she realised she hadn’t. _It’s only Reaver_ , her mind insisted petulantly. _Does he_ really _deserve your trust_? She frowned. _Only if I want his in return_.

“Wait,” Lawson said sharply, stopping in front of a slightly open door.

Victoria, anticipating something bad, immediately froze. She peered intently through the gloom, watching as Lawson bent over to grab something.

“Damnit, Scur,” the redhead grumbled, straightening up with a rumpled-looking tuxedo cat in her arms. “How many times ‘ave I told ya, hmm? Not ‘fore we get out ta sea, ya daft ratter. Bad Scurry.”

Scurry purred, looking regally at the humans with a superiority that rivalled even Reaver’s most arrogant of looks. Nero, who’d been following his mistress, suddenly grew alert, his ears perking up as he strained forward to sniff Scur with a whine. The cat yawned, clearly unfazed.

“Bloody cat,” Lawson muttered fondly, giving it a gentle toss into the room beside them so that the cat landed on a low shelf. It took Victoria a moment to realise the shelf was actually a bed and Lawson closed the door quickly, cutting off Scurry’s next escape attempt.

They continued on their way, entering the galley in short order. There were tiny, overstuffed cabinets everywhere and an ancient-looking cast iron stove that looked so small it could have been a child’s toy. One small, scrubbed wooden table took up about half of the room and a large group of mismatched chairs had been squished in around it. One of the cabinet doors was slightly open and the Princess saw a large variety of small, tightly sealed metal tins and a couple glass bottles with their corks covered in wax to water-proof them. Victoria wasn’t sure what to think of the tiny, cramped room and so she decided not to comment about its state. However, as Lawson busied herself with a cupboard, Victoria said quietly, “You don’t like me, do you?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Why?”

Lawson set a kettle on the small stove, lit it, and turned to frown at her. “I don’t trust ya. You’re usin’ him ta make ya feel better about yerself.”

Victoria was visibly taken aback. “I’m not using Reaver for _anything_ ,” the Princess retorted, unsure why the truth felt like a lie. “I don’t even _like_ him.”

“ _Really_?” Lawson looked sceptical at best.

“Really. And let me remind you that _you don’t know me_. You’ve no right to judge.”

The redhead flushed. “You’re right, I don’t know ya. Bu’ I know wha’s been happenin’. The men, ya see, don’t give much a damn ta what goes on on land. Bu’ I do, an’ I listen; an’ I don’t want ya takin’ him down with ya.”

Victoria stared at her, dumbstruck. Was Lawson…warning her off Reaver? Before she could stop herself, Victoria blurted, “Are you in love with him?”

The woman froze as if slapped, clearly puzzled. As revelation dawned on her, her expression turned to one of disgust. “ _What?!_ No! My tastes are _a little too specific_ ta be in _love_ with _him_.”

Victoria paused for a moment, confused, before it finally dawned on her what Lawson was hinting at. “Oh!” Victoria gasped, turning red. “So you’re—? I—I thought—I mean, you were so angry and he called you Kitten and I—I just—”

“Kitten’s a damn stupid nickname he came up with when I firs’ joined the crew an’ I _hate_ it. I was _angry_ ‘cause I respect the damn man—he took me in an’ gave me a job when no one else would. ‘Course I’d defend him if some cunny walks in here, half-cocked like she’s out ta settle a grudge, any one o’ us would. Where’s yer head at, girl?”

Blushing furiously, Victoria accepted the mug being handed to her, grateful for something to hide behind. She wanted to say something anything, to defend herself, but she didn’t know what she could say. The fact was, she had been walking around “half-cocked” for the last few months, barely thinking straight or with any amount of wisdom. If she had met herself, she probably would have been suspicious, too. “I apologize for taking liberties.”

“We both ‘ave been taking ‘em,” Lawson admitted uncomfortably. Moments passed in silence as they sipped their tea, though it wasn’t entirely uncompanionable.  When they were nearly done, she added, “I still don’t trust ya.”

“I’m fine with that,” Victoria said, surprised to realise that she truly was.

A short ringing of a bell sounded, and Lawson looked up at the ceiling and sighed. “D’ya wanna see where you’ll be sleepin’?”

Victoria smiled into her mug. “Please.”

~ * ~

There was a blissful weariness that descended upon Reaver’s body every time he went to sea. The overload of strenuous activity exhausted him better than even the most satisfying of lays, which was a good thing. If he was exhausted, he fell right to sleep and, if he slept as lightly as he usually did at sea, he did not dream. Not dreaming was _wonderful_.

As they entered upon open seas and the need for both watches to be on deck together diminished, however, he found himself confronted with a _very_ frustrated Kitten. Which he knew from experience, and from a great deal of memories that would scare a great deal of people (namely men) away from his first mate—including a rather vivid memory of her making a man a eunuch for insulting her—that leaving her frustrated only led to even more trouble. Soothing her, unfortunately, was also trouble, and he ended up having to remind her that it wasn’t her place to question him. When eight bells finally rang out and midwatch ended, he left the slightly peeved woman alone so he could attempt to sleep. Ames and Higgs could talk to her if she _really_ needed it, but he doubted she would. Kitten usually just seethed for a few hours and then was fine, so it seemed unlikely this time would be any different.

It was sometime after four in the morning that Reaver finally found himself entering his darkened quarters. As soon as the door was closed behind him, he began shrugging off all unnecessary clothing; after all, if you _had_ to sleep, it was best to sleep in enough clothes to get you through a battle, should one happen to occur.

He paused as a soft sound broke the stillness of the room. Reaver, quietly as he could, slipped over to the bed. Victoria lay there, clad only in her night things and trapped in a dream. A _very_ good dream, if Reaver had to guess. The Princess was flushed, her body twisted sinuously in the sheets as she tossed her head from side to side.

Tossing his shirt onto a chair, he sat down beside her, watching with interest. _Don’t fight it, ma sirene. You’ll feel_ so _very much_ better _if you just relax._

As if in response to his unspoken words, Victoria gave a frustrated sigh.

Further intrigued when the blankets slipped to reveal her bare leg, Reaver slid closer to her. _Tease._ Slowly, he placed a hand on her ankle, sigil-marked fingers looking somehow foreboding even against Victoria’s own tattoos. He paused upon realizing that he couldn’t remember actually touching her bare skin without gloves on before. He’d always made it a point to not do so, in fact. Her skin was soft and overly warm to the touch. Feverish, even. His fingers barely graced her skin as he slid his hand further up her leg, slowly as though she might shatter if he was too quick about it. Reaver could feel her trembling and relished when he heard her whimper.

Regretfully, he found that the blankets kept him from going higher than the middle of her thigh. He traced patterns along her skin and pressed a kiss against the side of her knee, not wanting to move the blankets and risk her waking and ending his fun. _Someday soon_ , Reaver thought, tracing her pulse solicitously _, you are going to stop being such a little tease, sirene._

Reaver pulled his hands away, pushing down silly things like thought and emotion. As he rose to his feet in an effort to finish getting ready for bed, he decided that it was almost unfortunate that the Princess’s chances of surviving the voyage were so slim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's better than pirates? Lesbian pirates. Pirates crewed by a bi-sexual, a lesbian, a really old and really tired dude, and a guy who may have been inspired by both Djimon Hounsou and Peter Mensah. Because I have too much fun or something with writing and I think about these things (and Fable) too much.


	11. Unfamiliar

Victoria had never been overly fond of ships. As fascinating as they were, there was just something about all that water that made her think of drowning. Still, she couldn’t help but admit that she was starting to enjoy herself. Though Lawson was still relatively aloof and the only person who could converse perfectly with Ames was Reaver (though a couple other crewmembers, including Lawson, seemed to be able to say the bare minimum of comments to him if need be), Victoria found that most of the crew were fascinating to talk to. A good deal of them were indifferent to her, yes, but, as long as she made a point to keep from stepping onto overly moral grounds and kept from bringing up her station, she was well-humoured. Higgs was gruff, but willing to lend a bit of information if asked, and a blond pirate that she was fairly certain was named Finnigan spent several long hours regaling her with tales of a “sweet, young lass” waiting for him back home and, once the others bid him to stop talking about her, would recount various legends he’d heard. Usually, these legends would be concluded by someone else joining in to either add on to the story or to start a new one—either way, Victoria listened avidly.

She also made a point of helping where she could. Though she knew it annoyed Reaver that she was “interfering”, she couldn’t just sit around, watching the sea and polishing her weapons. She’d spent enough time sitting around lately, and she wanted to do _something_ constructive. Victoria quickly found a very simple task to occupy herself: if a crewmember needed someone or something fetched and they were too far away and too busy to get it themselves, she would go get it for them. At first the thought of doing so had seemed a bit demeaning—after all, being told what to do was never pleasant, and they were all adults, so couldn’t they fetch things themselves?—but she soon discovered it afforded her a great opportunity to explore the ship ( _Arachne_ , she thought it was called) without being asked why she was there or, even worse, asked to go back on deck. All in all, it was going pretty well…and then the storm struck.

The sky had been hinting at foul weather for three days when the clouds finally opened up and let loose their fury. At first it had started very simply: a thick, watery slush that fell down upon them with a consistency somewhere between rain and sleet. They set about de-icing the ship and, after a bit of bickering, Victoria was allowed to help. However, things quickly took a turn for the worst. The farther South they went the warmer the temperature got (even if it was only by a couple of degrees), and soon the weather was alternating between a torrential downpour and freezing rain. And then, despite Reaver’s best efforts to avoid it, they sailed into a thunderstorm.

Even if the rough seas hadn’t woken her, the deafening crash of thunder far above the ship would have been enough to startle Victoria from sleep. She grabbed the first trousers, shirt, and boots she laid her hands upon (not caring if they were hers or Reaver’s), pulled them on as quickly as she could, and bolted out of cabin.

The first thing she set her gaze on when she flung the door open was a cloud laden sky and enormous waves that rocked the ship like it was a toy. Though Victoria had grown used to walking about on the ship, the sea usually only gently rocked _Arachne_ and this…this was something entirely different. Victoria stumbled out onto the deck, narrowly avoiding colliding with a couple of crew members that were hurrying about, only to slip on the slick boards beneath her feet. She tried to regain her balance and only succeeded in losing traction and crashing down to her knees. Wincing, cursing, and sopping wet, she hopped to her feet as best she could and, barely managing to keep her balance, rushed up the stairs to her right.

From up by the wheel, everything looked like chaos. Debris littered the deck and the crew members were everywhere, trying to keep that which they needed to survive the storm intact. She spotted Reaver trying to get an errant line tied down on his own and immediately went to hold the rope steady for him.

“What _exactly_ do you think _you’re_ doing?” Reaver all but barked at her.

Victoria grit her teeth and tightened her grip on the rope. _I must be losing my mind_. “Stop talking and let me help!”

She thought she heard him scoff but with the violent weather and crashing waves it was hard to know for certain. He had her get a grip higher up before he was able to tie the line down. She was just about to ask what else she could do when a series of shouts drew both of their heads up. Far above them, on the main mast, a sail had come half-loose. Though Victoria didn’t know the exact weight of a sail, she knew it was heavy enough to trap people under. She also knew they weren’t going to be able to sail out of the storm any faster without the sails. Victoria immediately moved to help and was yanked backwards as a firm hand grasped her arm and pulled her back.

“Why did you stop me?” she demanded. “They need help!”

“Yes, but not from you,” he replied. “You’re in the way; return to the cabin, we can manage on our own.”

Victoria wrenched out of his grasp and tried (and failed) to shove him away. “Why do you have to be _such_ an arse?! They _need_ help and I don’t need your consent to help them! So either tell me what I can do or _get out of my way_ and I’ll figure it out on my own!”

Reaver fixed her with an indecipherable look and, after a moment, said quickly: “Tell them if they cannot get it tied down, then cut it free before it causes further damage. We can no longer afford to waste time. _Go._ ”

Victoria didn’t waste time voicing her assent; she merely made her way back towards the railing and leapt back down onto the main deck, skidding slightly on the wet boards before she dashed towards the main mast. Though she’d never had an issue with heights, she’d never done very much climbing—other than trees—in her life and the mast was far larger than any tree she’d ever climbed. She’d seen the crew members climb it, though, and had listened when a few of them spoke about how most new crew members took the ascent carefully to avoid falling and breaking their necks. She wanted to take those words to heart and follow them closely, but she didn’t have the luxury of time and care and so was forced to go as quickly as she could manage.

She began her ascent up the ratlines and found that, at first, it was very easy—the only thing she had to struggle with was where to put her feet. Soon enough, however, the wind became an obstacle that constantly was trying to buck her off of the thick net of ratlines she clung to. The rain made every foot she climbed treacherous and her hands ached as the ropes cut into them. She refused to give up. She knew perfectly well that, if she failed, Reaver would hold it against her forever and she would be made to feel even more incompetent than he usually made her feel. She couldn’t just give up halfway there. And so she climbed, staring up at the sail above her and ignoring the rain pelting her face. Victoria didn’t know how she made it, just that, eventually, she was up above the main yard with two of the crew members that were still struggling with how to fix the sail.

“What the ‘ell are you doing up here?!” Finnigan shouted over the storm when he saw her.

“I’m here to help!” Victoria replied, trying to keep her balance. “Reaver said to tell you to cut it loose if you can’t get it tied— _whoa!_ ” the Princess yelped, nearly falling arse over teakettle as she lost her footing once more. She regained it just in time to avoid taking a short cut back down to the deck.

“Oh, that’s great, that is,” the pirate remarked sarcastically. “We’ll just have to get down there and do that.”

 _Down where?_ Victoria wondered. She peeked over the edge of the platform and saw the top of the yard far, far below her…and felt her heart drop into her stomach _. He can't be serious._

“Will you stop yer yappin’ and get climbin’, boy?” Finnigan’s partner snapped, still trying to get the ropes settled.

Finnigan turned to Victoria. “Right, you’re coming with me.”

“ _What?!_ ”

“It’s easier than it sounds,” he said. “Look, I’ll help you down. Crawl to where it’s tied and cut through the rope. There should be some lines near there that you can use to climb back down. Simple, right?”

Victoria stared incredulously at him. Oh, sure, it sounded easy, but she didn’t really think it would be. She bit her lip, frustrated, and nodded once before she could lose what little of her courage she’d managed to scrape together.

Under Finnigan’s guidance, they slowly descended until they were even with the yard—a thin strip of wood that was the only thing still anchoring the sail in place. Once Victoria was safely clinging to it, Finnigan left her there with the reminder to cut the rope and went carefully _walking_ to the other end. Squashing down her sudden vertigo, Victoria began moving towards the sail’s anchoring knot. _I’m not going to fall_ , she told herself in a futile attempt to build up her confidence. Soon enough, she had reached the knot and was pulling out the small dirk Finnigan had handed her. She sawed through the rope, marvelling at the thrill of victory running through her despite the fact that she still had to find a way down to the deck. The last stand of rope broke…and, the next thing Victoria knew, a gust of wind and an over-large wave had completely unbalanced her.

Victoria yelped and, even as she slid off the beam, knew there was no way to keep herself from falling. Instead, she tried to make it seem as though she had merely leapt down and hit the deck with both feet. Pain flared through her right ankle and she immediately became aware that something had gone very wrong in her landing. She worked to keep the pain from her face and movements as she headed for the wheel and sat down beside it.

“I thought you said you could help,” Reaver remarked dryly, working the wheel in an effort to get them clear of the storm.

“I’m _fine_ ,” Victoria spat, knowing perfectly well that he’d seen the entire thing and knowing that they both knew she wasn’t alright. “I just need a moment.”

She leaned back and closed her eyes, trying to ignore Reaver’s disbelieving snort of laughter. She focused on her breathing and tried to will the pain away.

Next thing she knew, she was waking up in Reaver’s cabin. The storm had finally passed and the sky was almost painfully bright. Her body aching, she sat up to find a bottle of healing potion on the nearest table as well as a note in Reaver’s elegant handwriting telling her that her ankle was broken and she was henceforth banned from helping the crew (by order of the _entire_ crew). Victoria groaned and buried her face in her hands. _I’m never going to live this down_.

~ * ~

“So…they _eat_ men?”

“I di’n’t say that.”

“Oh. But…do they?”

“How’d I know? I ein’t a man.”

The ship rolled and pitched gently beneath them, but neither Victoria nor Lawson noticed. They were set to dock in Bloodstone in only a few hours, and the Princess had come on deck to clean her pair of tactical knives for lack of anything else to do, only to find the red haired pirate also on deck, scrapping ice from the railings. Avo forbids the _Arachne_ sank due to icing. They would have mostly ignored each other had it not been for the women they suddenly saw in the water off the port side.

They were almost heartbreakingly beautiful, that was obvious; like statues of angels or goddesses come to life. One was in the frigid water, staring coyly at the passing ship as she clutched at the large rock four others had occupied. Sirens. Their long hair kept their nude bodies from view as those partially in the water flashed their sleek, fish-finned tails. In the pale blue light they emanated, Victoria could see that the sirens’ beauty was marred only by their unquenchable hunger.

The one in the water, with her long mane of dark curls pooling around her and her sweet face expressing only childish innocence and unrequited longing, was softly singing. Victoria couldn’t quite hear the words of it and the haunting quality of the melody almost made her want to get closer to listen properly. _Almost_. Until she and Lawson began talking about what _exactly_ a siren did and Victoria began to wish she were far away and on dry land. She _really_ didn’t want to be eaten by the pretty fish-ladies.

But the sirens kept back and Victoria was allowed to clean her weapons in relative peace. She looked critically at the gleaming, exotic-looking blades. The slightly curved knives were longer than her forearm and inlaid with strange symbols. Fast and sharp, they were wonderful weapons; though, as she caressed the polished wooden hilts of the borrowed blades, she longed for the worn leather grips of her own, slightly nicked, pair.

With a sigh, she sheathed the blades in her leg sheathes and sat back to stare at the dark, pre-dawn sky. _There’s so many stars here…._ As nice as it was to be travelling again, it was hard to relax. Her mind kept betraying her, haunting her dreams with visions of things that she would rather not imagine…especially when most of those dreams were about the person sleeping beside her. The biggest problem, however, was how utterly useless she felt. Like she was wasting her time when there were _other_ , more important things she could be doing. Not that she _could_ do anything, even if she figured out _what_ she was meant to do. It wasn’t exactly like she could just run off or contact the Resistance.

Though, she had to admit, the thought of running away from Bloodstone, when they reached it, amused her. Especially when she took into consideration some of the advice she’d picked up from various crewmembers around the ship: one, never wander about Bloodstone unarmed. Two, don’t follow people you don’t know (and be wary of those you do know), which was clearly a given. And three, _stay away from the marsh_. Despite Wraithmarsh’s exceptionally cheery name, she was actually quite curious about it. After all, there was a lot of forgotten history in Southern Albion. And then she thought about Mourningwood and about how it was full of hobbes and hollow men, and Victoria felt a sudden lack of interest to see the marsh with her own eyes. She could be called a lot of things, some of them unflattering, but stupid was not one of them.

Well, if anything, at least she could cheer herself up with the thought of being able to eat something more than hardtack and salted beef when they got to town.

As the ship was set to dock, Victoria thought she caught sight of a siren following them, but it was gone much too quick for her to be certain and the ship itself became far too busy for her to be on too much of a watch for dangerous creatures. She could worry about _those_ once the sails were reefed and the anchors were dropped. Though, as it happened, after all was said and done, when they alighted on shore Victoria was too preoccupied with the town around her to be worried about what lurked off shore of it.

From the sea, Bloodstone had looked rather charming; all its little buildings and ships nestled in a little cove like something out of a fairy story. Submerged in it, Bloodstone was another thing entirely. Though the roads and stone wharf were kept in fine repair, the buildings were quite a different story. They were all various shades of dilapidated: broken windows, and even a couple broken doors, appearing to be commonplace among the shops lining the waterfront. One stall’s sign was missing, lying splintered on the floor nearby, and a few other stalls were smashed beyond repair. Whores, some of them startlingly young, advertised their wares from street corners, doorways, and alleys. And yet, in those self-same alleys, Victoria caught sight of multiple corpses in various stages of decomposition.

In stark contrast, the Leper’s Arms, a pub, was bristling with life. Boisterous talk and laughter, furious shouts, and off-key singing melded with jaunty music, mixing into a riotous sound that rolled merrily into the streets. Those of the crew who were neither remaining with _Arachne_ nor returning to their homes immediately made way for it. Though Lawson sent the pub a wistful look, Victoria was glad when Reaver led them away from it. She wasn’t sure she wanted to meet the locals so soon.

_This entire town is mad._

“Bet ya wish ya were back home righ’ about now, don’t ya?” Lawson asked cheerfully, picking up on Victoria’s apprehension.

“ _Caroline_ ,” Reaver said warningly. It took a moment before Victoria connected the name with the suddenly blushing Lawson.

“Righ’. Um…sorry, Cap’n. Won’t happen again. We’ll jus’…um…go up ‘head, eh?”

“That would be wise, Kitten.”

Still blushing, Caroline quickly made her way ahead of them, pulling a trunk of luggage with her. She was soon followed by the ever-silent, ebony giant that was Ames, who bowed deeply to his captain and the Princess before departing with the rest of the luggage.

Victoria and Reaver followed at a much more languid pace.

“ _You’re_ from _here_?” she finally said, disbelief heavily colouring her voice. She tried to match the elegance and finery Reaver usually exuded and kept himself mired in with the mayhem and slowly crumbling aura Bloodstone projected and found it was hard to link the two together.

“In a manner of speaking,” Reaver replied, clearly amused by her. “What do you think of my little coastal paradise?”

Victoria worked very hard not to blurt the first thing that came to mind. She bit her lip, throat working for a very long moment, before she took a deep breath and sighed, “It’ll do.”

“Your father said much the same thing.”

There was a laugh in Reaver’s voice as he picked up his pace, but his words had caught Victoria’s interest. As she struggled to keep up with him, her barely healed ankle protesting, she panted, “Wait! You can’t just leave it like that. What else did my father say? _Reaver_!”

~ * ~

Tendrils of mist clutched at their feet as they walked. Bloodstone had been built on an incline and the walk up the hill was twisting and much longer than anticipated; by the end of it, Victoria still hadn’t gotten an answer to her question. Day was beginning to break, pale and cool, as they approached a heavy set of iron gates. They were elegant and, when Reaver pushed on them, they swung open easily. As they stepped into the terrace full of winter-blooming flowers, Victoria realised, with a touch of confusion, that she had seen no trace of snow or ice the entire trek through town. In fact, now that she thought on it, the air seemed to be somewhat warmer than in Bowerstone. Which was strange. Maybe its southerly location had something to do with it, or maybe the town had just been fortunate enough to not be touched by a winter storm; either way, Victoria didn’t know. She was too tired to do anything more than make note of the situation to ponder it at a later date.

Repressing a yawn, she looked up at the house that rose up before them and was surprised by what she saw. It was old, that was a given; its paint beginning to peel and the exposed wood was weathered grey. It, like the _Arachne_ , had the air of proud elegance slowly beginning to decay as the new, strange world around it began to take over. But it didn’t change the fact that they both were beautiful; the house’s high, arched windows glowing welcomingly with warm light behind thick, slightly wavy glass and the oddly new-looking front door was unlocked when they approached.

Victoria couldn’t even bring herself to fake surprise that the inside of the manor was as lavish and opulent as any of Reaver’s other residences; by now, she had decided it was a given. She didn’t bother looking around, either. It was so late and she was so tired that all she wanted to do was _fall_ into a warm bed before the sun rose too high. She pulled off her leather gloves and stuffed them into her pocket before working on getting her coat off. She paused mid-way through undoing, in her opinion, a stupidly long row of buttons as her eyes found Reaver once more. “Are you _going_ somewhere _already_?”

“Yes. Lots to do. Things are about to get relatively _giddy_ , I’m sure you understand,” the pirate-turned-industrialist quipped as he switched greatcoats.

Victoria didn’t, really. “But we’ve only just arrived!”

“ _Exactly!_ Well, tatty bye. Must be off.”

He left her standing there somewhat frazzled. She hadn’t the slightest clue what he had meant by “giddy”, nor did she understand the necessity of leaving so quickly after a night of absolutely no sleep. All she could think of was that he was up to something. No…it wasn’t so much that she had thought it, it was that she could _feel_ it. She bit her lip, uncomfortable with that prospect. This time, Victoria wasn’t so sure that she wanted to be lucky enough to find out _what_.

~ * ~

Bloodstone was unlike any town she had ever been in on her travels. Most towns she’d passed through were quiet and peaceful, except during times when people were busy working or shopping; they spread out over the countryside in little clusters of houses and shops, both welcoming and quaint. In contrast, every morning the misty little town of Bloodstone would remain in a sleepy silence until quite late in the day, leaving only shop owners and fishermen to rise early and allowing Victoria the freedom to roam as she pleased through the narrow streets and winding roads for most of the morning. The rest of the day was spent with her thrust into the chaotic whirlwind of the general populace.

It quickly grew exhausting dodging the constant threats, even if no one acted on them, and, after a while, Victoria decided that she wasn’t receiving threats on the basis of genuine ill will, but because it just seemed natural to the town’s people to make them. But Victoria couldn’t deny that she thrived on it. Despite the fact that, deep down, Victoria had always craved a quiet life where nothing was expected of her, she couldn’t deny that she came alive in dangerous situations and that she enjoyed adventure above all else. And maybe, just a little bit, she was beginning to understand Reaver’s insanity. You needed to be a little bit insane to survive in Bloodstone.

As for the man himself, Victoria saw a pitifully small amount of him. At first. He was out all day, only to return to his mansion after Victoria had gone to bed, and he left well before she awoke—she hadn’t even had a chance to catch him at bed time; upon discovering that there was a second bedroom, and with Reaver not there to say otherwise, she’d immediately claimed it for her own. By the time she finally caught sight of him, Reaver had been in a strange mood. Preoccupied, one might say. That attitude had held up through most of their subsequent meetings over the next couple days.

Victoria, however, refused to let Reaver’s oddness distract her. She vowed to herself that she _wouldn’t_ let herself get pulled into trouble for getting interested in what he was doing again. She couldn’t keep allowing herself to get dragged into the wake of his madness. No, instead, she needed to use this trip to get her thoughts back in order and then get ready to redouble her attempts to get out of this engagement.

Victoria awoke late the first day and spent the evening attempting to acquaint herself with the town—namely its many shops and stalls—the next day, however, she spent exploring. First she had tried going through Reaver’s house, but there was only a dozen or so rooms and the task had failed when she came to find that his study’s door was _locked_ , for some inane reason. After trying to force the door open for five minutes straight, she turned her curiosity outward. She climbed up the ancient stone staircase that led to the cliffs and the path out of town so she could plod her way through Bloodstone’s marshy graveyard before making her way back down to the far side of town so she could clamber about in dark caves. She’d comforted Nero when they’d run into huge rats nearly the size of small cats in the remains of someone’s cellar. And she’d tried not to break her neck as she wandered about the rocky shoreline; the sky above her, however, was thick with clouds and the air was too cold for her to remain near the water and so, mindful of any loose rocks, she turned back to poke around in some abandoned warehouses instead. If anyone minded her prying, she never heard about it—or, at least, she never heard anything that linked directly to it. A part of Victoria wondered if, like the servants back “home”, the town’s folk had somehow been warned away from her.

The third day dawned even more sullen than the previous day; the wind howled like some wild beast and Victoria, having woken up early, abruptly lost all urge to get out of bed. However, she recalled her plans to visit the lighthouse, as well as how long it would take to walk there, and she dragged herself up to get dressed and breakfast as quickly as possible.

The lighthouse had caught her attention the very first day she’d arrived in Bloodstone. Built into the cliffs far above the town, it rose up in a dark and lonely vigil and twisted like a crooked tooth. However, the walk up the long, sloping path was arduous and, in places, made her worry about falling into the sea. She tried to focus on the positive in an effort to keep from turning back, such as how bracing the cold air was and how nice it was to be outside, but she could tell that even Nero wasn’t too thrilled with their trek. In hindsight, the walk was nothing compared to having to convince the lighthouse keeper to let her in. The man was wizened with woolly hair, blackened teeth, and a body hunched over with age. For some reason, he seemed quite averse to letting her enter as soon as his eyes set upon her.

She spent an eon trying to explain that she just wanted to look around and see what it was like from the top of the tower, but the keeper would only shake his head, grumble a negative, and wave her away. Victoria was just about to give up when a familiar face showed itself. Ames the bosun, bogged down with buckets of lamp oil, called out to the ornery old man in a language Victoria had absolutely no familiarity with and the keeper, apparently understanding him, replied. After a moment, the keeper, still grumpy, stood aside to let her in, though he still wouldn’t let Nero come with her. Victoria thanked him and inclined her head respectfully, telling Nero to wait for her, before following Ames up the iron stairs, wondering all the while what the pirate was doing there.

Up and up, she went in tight circles, never seeming to get any closer to the top. She couldn’t help but pine for a lift. When she finally reached the end of the stairs that she’d begun to assume were interminable, Victoria found herself, sweating and panting, assaulted by a blessedly icy breeze. She stepped up to the railing and leaned against it, breathing heavily as she took in the incredible sight before her. The town spread out below her like a model-maker’s replica of a real town and Victoria was amazed by how high up she was. It brought back distinct memories of looking out over Bowerstone from the castle’s gardens as she watched the tiny dots that were people moving about on the streets that looked like lines of pebbles. To the north and to the west was an endless expanse of dark, storm-ridden seas which she could also make out to the south past a number of hills and cliffs. Now that she was high enough to see over the enormous hill that Reaver’s house sat in the shadow of, she could see a vast grey, fog-shrouded region to the east that she could only assume was Wraithmarsh. Victoria couldn’t help but feel incredibly small as she tried to take it all in.

There was a soft tap on her shoulder that made her jump and, when she turned around to ask what was needed of her, Victoria offered Ames a soft “thank you” as he wordlessly pointed out an old spyglass to her. Ames only offered her a nod in return before, apparently done refilling the lamp, he started back down the stairs. As the pirate’s heavy footfalls faded down the long flight of stairs, Victoria opened the small telescope and pointed it towards the town. She smiled as the few people that were up, wandering about the streets, came into clearer focus. She watched them a moment before, on a sudden whim, turning toward the north. There was a dark shape there, an enormous tower rising above the waves, visible throughout most of Albion. The Spire. With the spyglass, she saw it clearer than usual; the pulsing blue light shot through the centre, the strange, spike-like structures jutting out of the water at slight angles around it.

 _Theresa_ , Victoria thought wistfully. _Are you over there? Why will you not help me? Have I failed so completely that I’m no longer of use to Albion?_ If she was expecting the red-hooded seeress to suddenly manifest before her or to send her a sign, she was gravely mistaken.

Sighing, she considered putting the spyglass down. _Don’t,_ she told herself _. Just stop thinking about it. You’ll make yourself depressed again._ It was the truth and she knew it even if it was hard to accept. As she continued to look aimlessly around the town, she resolved to put it out of her mind and to fetch Nero so that they could find something else to do. That plan, naturally, failed when a bit of movement near the edge of town drew her attention.

 _What?_ She turned the spyglass back, hunting for what she’d seen. Her eyebrows knitted together when she found it. _Reaver?_ She was fairly certain that it _was_ Reaver, if only because no one else she’d met in town was quite that tall; him and another person Victoria didn’t recognize. They were headed out of town and Victoria felt a slight stab of betrayal intermix with her confusion. _What are you up to?_ Curiosity was beginning to eat away at her. _Don’t do it_ , she told herself warningly. _Don’t. You_ really _shouldn’t do it._

It was too late and no use and she knew it all too well. Before she could do any more to try and stop herself, she’d closed the spyglass and put it back and had begun racing down the winding stairs. It was faster getting down them than up and, ignoring the indignant shouts of the keeper, she found herself bolting from the lighthouse relatively quickly. Nero chased joyfully after her, loving that they were finally running. Victoria was too preoccupied to watch him as she tried to navigate the winding path. She ignored every warning bell in her body as she raced onward. It was as though her logical mind had lost control of her body to her irrational mind. All she could focus on was that she _had_ to follow him. Had to _know_. And that, unfortunately for her, was all there was to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When on earth did we pass 100 hits?! =D If you could hear the eldritch noises of joy I'm making right now. Thank you, thank you, so very much! Hugs to all of you. ^^  
> (So, I've been making a point of keeping chapter quotes on FFN and off all the other sites, but I might put up a couple of the really relevant ones in one of the note sections... Also, some Blackout (sequel) info/spoilers up on Tumblr. ;) Check it out if you're interested.)


	12. The Fourth Circle

Wraithmarsh more than lived up to its name; it was just as grey and gloomy as it had appeared from the lighthouse and was about ten times mistier. It instantly put her on her guard. With an almost preternatural edge, the cold air seeped into her clothes to soak down into the very _marrow_ of her bones.

Victoria plodded through icy mud and muck, thankful for her knee-high boots. Fog swirled eerily around her and lowered her visibility until all she could really make out were vague shapes around her. It made her begin to wonder if the area really was as haunted as she’d heard. While Nero loped easily through mud and over rocks and fallen trees, Victoria struggled to make good time. Mud and water sucked greedily at her feet as though it meant to pull her under. Snarled roots, decomposing logs, and hidden chunks of stone continuously threatened to make her fall. Above all, they annoyed her as they constantly made her have to slow down and be cautious of the area. At this rate, she’d _never_ catch up to Reaver.

There was only one thing she had going for her: Reaver had someone with him. If she was the least bit lucky, Reaver would be forced to slow down and keep to the more defined “roads”, while Victoria was free to cut through any area short of deep water to catch up.

She made her way through a stretch of murky water, trying hard not to splash any as the icy liquid attempted to seep in through the tiny gap between her leather trousers and her boots. When she finally reached the other side, she considered taking a leaf out of Nero’s book as the collie shook himself dry. Nero didn’t like this place. She’d been watching him as they’d been walking and had noticed just how afraid Nero seemed of the marsh—how his ears were back and his tail was low, though the rest of his body was tense. Victoria wished she could say that it was different for her and she was unaffected, but it was getting difficult to pretend that she didn’t want to head back to town.

They passed the skeletal remains of some poor fool who’d attempted to pass through the region, bits of rancid, maggot-eaten flesh still clinging to his bones. Taking that as a bad sign, Victoria hurried past it, over a worn footbridge, and down into even more water. She wasn’t sure what was worse: the general creepiness of the marsh itself or the shattered, dilapidated remnants of what had probably once been normal life here. Broken corpses of houses, a weatherworn arch, a smashed well, a splintered mass of old planks that may have once been a bridge. It was a depressing, disheartening reminder of just how fragile life was.

Though, there was something other than the creepiness she found… _very_ strange. She should have been attacked by now, she just knew it. Wisps darted erratically overhead as she passed through a towering ring of tombs that rose up high enough to nearly block out the dreary sky, but the wisps never dove into the ground to form hollow men. As she passed through the sepulchres and by an, admittedly disturbing, bone-covered altar, Victoria felt eyes on her. Whispers hung on the wind. Paranoia began to creep up on her as though ants were crawling beneath her skin. She wasn’t alone. Despite trying to keep to a fast pace, she kept her eyes peeled, almost certain that someone was watching her.

The whispers faded and the all-encompassing silence of Wraithmarsh returned. Or it should have. Victoria could hear voices. Faint, _human_ voices. Glad she was getting close, she bolted down the path from the altar. Dead trees raced past her field of vision and soon she found herself facing an old, covered bridge. There were small patches of peeling red paint that still clung to the exposed wood. The beams supporting the windows had collapsed and the entire structure looked close to following its example at any moment. Even though she knew her weight was about average for her height, Victoria didn’t want to go into it—the bridge looked like a light breeze would send it crashing down.

But then she looked to her left and saw the shadowed forms of two people walking far below her and she knew she either had to chance the bridge or look for another way down. _I should find a way down that won’t end with me getting caught should the bridge give out_.

There was no way down to her left and so she turned to the right…and felt her heart break. The burnt and crumbling remains of a town lay half-submerged before her. The top of a tower, the falling in roofs of buildings, all barely visible above the waterline and through the heavy mist. _What happened here?_ It was terrible, even more so because she knew nothing about this place and yet it _still_ made her heart wrench. _Put it from your mind_ , she thought, remembering what her father had said about making difficult choices. _Just put it from your mind and do what you can_.

She grounded herself and forced her thoughts back on task. A way down. A _fast_ way down. Victoria stepped up to the edge of the cliff and peered down. The drop didn’t look too far—well, at least not as far as the one in the Reliquary. _I could make that. I think._ There were rocks down there; trees, too. She could tell right from the off that it wasn’t going to be a pleasant landing. _Are you a Hero or not?! Jump!_

Victoria jumped.

The cliff was slightly slanted outward, and she slid a little before the cliff-face sharply withdrew. It took everything in her not to scream as she fell. She landed in a pile of dead leaves and broken branches before rolling into a large rock. The sharp pain of it took the breath from her lungs and her ankle, though fully healed now, smarted as though displeased with her.

“ _Ow_ ,” she groaned softly, lying there a moment. _Such a bad idea_.

 _Reaver’s getting away_. The thought launched her to her battered feet. She brushed leaves off her as she looked for Nero. He wasn’t beside her. Puzzled and worried, Victoria looked up. Nero still stood above her on the edge of the cliff, staring down at her with a curious expression.

“Nero, come here!” she hissed as him, gesturing for him to come.

Nero wagged his tail tentatively at her, head tilted, then turned and disappeared from her view. She nearly panicked, ignoring why she was out in the middle of some Avo-forsaken marsh in the first place as she worried over her dog. Until she heard the soft creaking of old wood mixed with the even softer patter of running doggie paws. _Dogs_ ….

Trusting both Nero’s speed and that he’d return to her as quickly as he could, Victoria clambered out from behind the rock and started up a large dirt path. She wondered if it had been a road once, judging by how clear of over-grown vegetation it was compared to other areas. She hurried under the old bridge, trying not to wonder _why_ metal, people-sized cages were hanging from posts lining the road. At least there was nothing _in_ them. Dirt changed to broken cobblestones under her feet and she quickly had to throw herself down behind a mossy stone fence as she went past one of the hanging cages.

She’d caught up.

Reaver and his companion stood before a door to a strange, monolithic structure. It was far worse than the drowned town; emanating an aura of despair and darkness so great that Victoria wanted to run. No, not run. Her skin crawled as though getting any closer would result in it suddenly combusting, and she wanted to put an entire country’s distance between her and the building. Even with that thought, she wasn’t entirely certain she’d feel better afterwards. She was willing to bet that Reaver had had to stop to reassure his companion against that. _Note to self_ , Victoria thought cynically as Reaver opened the structure’s door, _if Reaver asks you to follow him into a creepy marsh to get to an even_ creepier _building, do_ not _go with him_.

Nero had re-joined her by then and, as Reaver and his “friend” finally went inside, the Princess and her dog leapt over the old fence and hurried to the door. They managed to get inside just before the door had closed itself with an eerie and final-sounding bang.

There was a brazier burning just inside the door, but its warm light did nothing to soothe the chill that had suddenly instilled itself in her heart. She was overcome with hopeless despair, with the feeling that her life was meaningless and that it would be better to just _die_ than face another day. And the grief…she recounted every sorrowful event in her memory—from her father’s death to her mother’s suicide to Elliot’s execution—as though she was being stabbed repeatedly. She wanted to curl up on the floor and cry until she had nothing left but the husk of her body. Thankfully, she was alone but for Nero, who whined and nudged her hand with his cold, wet nose. Victoria scratched his ears, petting him to soothe them both, and soon his warmth allowed her to move past her troubles.

“Let’s find Reaver,” she murmured under her breath, cautious of echoes.

She made her way down a narrow flight of stairs and into a large chamber. It was so dark that the tiny torches on the walls barely mattered. Broken tiles and collapsed columns littered the floor, mingling with skeletal remains. Her eyes were locked to the relief set into the wall before her. It was metal, maybe bronze or brass, and had been worked into the shape of three hooded figures. Though they looked like angels, something about them was all _wrong_. Twisted, malevolent. _I have_ got _to get out of here_.

Other than the way she’d come, there were two exits. She tried the one closest to her, struggling to open the grate. It wouldn’t budge. Muttering darkly, Victoria turned and walked across the room to the other archway. This time there was no grate and she descended through darkness, finding nothing more than more stairs and thick curtains of dusty cobwebs.

The watched feeling was back and stronger this time. Victoria heard rustling and footsteps all around her, but couldn’t place _where_ any of it was coming from. _Once I saw a place_ , Victoria’s father had once told her when she’d come to him as a child, worried about monsters in her dark room, _where the shadows had eyes that burned, names that I could not hear, weapons that tore, and voices that harmed me worst of all_. He’d gone on to tell her that, as long as she didn’t see or hear any of those, she ought to be alright; but it had never been very comforting. And the words had never been as meaningful as they were at that moment. The shadows were watching her.

She passed through room after room, never receiving any indication where Reaver was or how close she was getting to him. Her desire to hit the man was growing by the second.

The oppressive feeling of the place closed in on her until she felt tiny and alone in the world, and the halls were like a maze of rat’s tunnels.

The Princess had just passed over some _very_ uneven ground (was it just her imagination or was there small _holes_ in the floor?) and had started down some stairs where she heard it. A scream that chilled her blood. _Oh, Avo, what happened?_

Victoria wasn’t aware she had moved when she found herself racing down the stairs and out onto a small landing. For silence’s sake, she slowed her footsteps as she rounded a corner. There was an odd red light up ahead. Head slightly tilted, she crept closer.

The next room looked as though it were made up of tombs. In the centre of the area stood Reaver, a bit of red velvet in his hands and his companion encased in a swirling red and black mist. Across a small gap into an abyss, standing before them…before them was a trio of _shadows_. Or, she thought they were shadows. What other word was there for them? _Wraith. Demon_.

She kept back, staying cloaked in darkness as, bewildered and disturbed, she looked on. Why, oh _why_ , did she get the _lovely_ feeling she wasn’t meant to see this? Odd, though: the only emotion she could conjure up was a mild apprehension. It was almost as though all of her other emotions had randomly vacated her body, leaving only instinct and awkwardness behind. And, at that moment, her instinct was telling her to run.

The mist retracted slowly, leaving an old man behind. The poor man stood there, mumbling as he stared unseeingly at his hands. Victoria had the desperate desire to comfort him, but her growing unease kept her frozen in her tracks. She _really_ didn’t want to get closer to those shadow things.

“ _The sacrifice has been made_ ,” the shadows announced, their voices echoing through her head in a dragging whisper.

Victoria shared the old man’s confusion. _Sacrifice? What sacrifice? What the hell is going on?!_

“Lovely,” Reaver purred. His expression never changed from the almost pleasant look he wore as he drew his pistol and fired a shot into the man’s head.

Victoria yelped as the shot rang out and she quickly clapped a hand over her mouth. It was too late, though. They’d heard her. Before she could even _consider_ moving, Reaver was aiming at her.

“Now, now, don’t _hide_. Be a _good_ little stalker and show yourself,” Reaver called.

His condescending tone did nothing to inspire confidence. _Amazing, that_. Her thoughts were heavy with sarcasm while she hoped Reaver didn’t have a clear shot at her. _He’s_ definitely _going to kill me this time_.

“ _Come. Come to us_ ,” the shadows beckoned.

She felt somehow disinclined to not do as they asked. Sensation was slowly trickling back to her as, unwillingly, she walked slowly into the chamber. The air was dank and the scent of old, and new, blood assaulted her nose. Victoria pointedly kept her gaze away from Reaver. She didn’t want to see his expression.

 _You’re monsters_ , she thought, unable to speak and unable to comprehend why she was so unreasonably afraid as she stared at the trio before her. The dark hadn’t truly frightened her since she was a child, so why was it bothering her now?

“ _Another sacrifice? We do not require another_ ,” they said, their attention divided evenly between the terrified girl and the man who continued to aim his gun at her. “ _Or is there something else you want with her? Do you want her? Did you lead her down here to make her like_ you, _Thief Prince?_ ”

Victoria couldn’t help but think that that was one of the strangest things she had ever heard. Maybe she’d consider pondering it if she left the place alive. She wished she’d just stayed in bed that morning. So much for not letting Reaver distract her.

“ _Hardly_ ,” Reaver scoffed, his voice far more mocking than those of the shadows’. “It’s a simple matter that she’s a little sneak with nothing to do with this.”

“ _We will see about that_.” They turned their attention to Victoria, who was doing her damnedest not to cower. “ _Are you afraid of us? Do you like making deals?_ ”

“No,” Victoria managed after a second, her throat too constricted for her to speak much above a whisper. “And, even if I did, I wouldn’t make a deal with _you_.”

Her mind screamed at her for it, deciding she was as big of an idiot as they all probably thought she was. What was she thinking? Did being a Hero kill the part of the brain reserved for tact? _Stupid, stupid, stupid!_

The shadows didn’t appear to care about or even notice the blatant disrespect. “ _Not even for those you have lost? Do you not desire to see them again?_ ”

Victoria’s heart leapt eagerly. Elliot! Her father! She missed them so much and longed to see them just once more. She didn’t think there was anything she wouldn’t give to see them, or any of the other people she cared about just one more time.

And then she happened to glance at Reaver; his dark eyes, usually so expressive, were remarkably dead. Her breath caught in her throat, unrealistic hopes fading quickly. _They’re lying to me_ , she thought, trying to convince herself though she wasn’t entirely certain of what the truth was anymore. _I refuse to be like_ him. _I won’t let them use me_.

“The dead are dead and gone,” she told them, defiance wiping away the last of her fears, and she raised her head proudly. “They’re never coming back, and getting my hopes up that you can do something that’s impossible to do isn’t worth the time. When I will die, I will see them again and that’s soon enough for me. I don’t make deals with _monsters_.”

The silence was deafening. Nobody moved; no one spoke. The air had grown positively frigid. Victoria wondered if the shadows were angered by her response or if they were merely disappointed and, for the first time since she’d entered the place, realised she didn’t care. What could they truly do to her?

“ _Then Reaver is correct_ ,” the middle shadow said without tone. “ _There is no use for you_.”

Victoria barely had time to register her feeling of increased foreboding before something heavy struck her. Pain exploded against the back of her skull and she pitched forward. As she faded into black unconsciousness, she heard the same shadow whisper in her mind, “ _You are not the first to defy us, Victoria Rochester. You must know it has only happened once in this world. I have seen your heart, child. It never crossed my mind that one so young could hope to find a power greater than our own.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Forever shall they come to these two buttings;  
> These from the sepulcher shall rise again  
> With the fist closed, and these with tresses shorn.  
> Ill giving and ill keeping the fair world  
> Have ta'en them, and placed them in this scuffle;  
> Whate'er it be, no words adorn I for it.  
> Now canst thou, Son, behold the transient farce  
> Of goods that are committed unto Fortune,  
> For which the human race each other buffet;  
> For all the gold that is beneath the moon,  
> Or ever has been, of these weary souls  
> Could never make a single one repose."  
> ~Virgil (Dante Aligheri - The Divine Comedy - Inferno, Canto 7, Lines 55-65)


	13. Vices and Virtues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not going to have internet access for a few days, so I'm just gonna leave this here to keep you guys company til I get back. ;)

_She was a child again, wandering endlessly in the streets of Bowerstone Industrial. Her tightly curled hair and freckled mocha skin were the same, but, behind her sharp eyes, Page somehow knew she wasn’t_ really _a child. She was just dreaming._ Ugh, how pathetic can I be?  I’m not dreaming. People don’t just _know_ they are dreaming.

_Her feet navigated the cobbled streets easily; they seemed to know exactly where to go, though she had no destination in mind. The factories rose up impossibly high around her, emanating the tortured voices of the abused people of Albion. A voice called out for her; called out for help. She had to help them! She raced through the streets, ignoring her child-sized body and any feelings of inadequacy that threatened to creep up because of it. But she was too small and quickly became lost._

_“You are losing sight of your goal.”_

_The voice echoed from everywhere and through everything, femininely soft but determinedly blunt. Page had never heard that voice before. She spun in circles, looking for both the speaker and the way out. She found neither._

_“And the world you are fighting so hard to defend is nearing its end,” the voice finished._

_Dizzied, panting, the air didn’t seem to be reaching her lungs fast enough. At her little intersection of many pathways, Page struggled not to panic. An invisible force pressed heavily against her, slowly crushing her under its weight; it hurt terribly as she tried, and failed, to get away from it._

_“What do you expect me to do?!” she shouted at the blank white sky. “What can I do?! Every move I make against Logan has led from bad to worse!”_

_The pressure vanished instantly at her words and Page stumbled slightly at the release. Something clattered behind her and she whirled around. A…stick? It was a_ stick? _She picked it up slowly, feeling its odd weight and the rough bark against her work-calloused hands._

_“I expect you to endure.”_

_Page suddenly found herself surrounded. Mercenaries, and a lot of them. Doubt crowded her as it never truly had before. Fights like these were unsettling, though necessary. But there was nothing real to be gained by fighting them. No wars to be won. No leverage against those who oppressed the country. It was just life and death._

_A mercenary’s blade swiped the air a little too close to her for comfort. Page jerked back, using the momentum to spin and brain the man behind her. He went down as if he were a puppet with cut strings. A flash of bright scarlet and white darting down one of the tunnels distracted her for a split second and Page had to react quickly to avoid being gutted. She slammed a violent kick into the other mercenary’s crotch, smoothly turning afterwards to take out another’s knees before bashing him over the head._

_“Does anyone else want to try to take me?” she snarled, confidence beginning to return._

_The remaining mercenaries descended upon her._

_“You are strong, but strength alone will not save you. No true rebel has ever succeeded alone.”_

_The mystery woman’s words struck home, making her begin to doubt everything she knew once more. As Page wove and ducked between men, putting all her force into each swing of her stick, she tried to push that doubt away once more._ But I can beat them!

_“Can you, though?” the voice replied to her unspoken words._

_One of the mercenaries’ blades struck home, slicing a long gash in her arm. Page’s guard dropped for a fraction of a second, but that was all that was needed for them to drive her to the ground. Kicks and punches battered her body, setting her back and ribs ablaze with pain._

_“You are no Hero. A true rebel will fight against all odds, but_ you _, Page, can’t fight against what you cannot face.”_

 _The rebel cried out in pain as a kick shattered one of her ribs. Pain, red-hot and unavoidable, seared through her side to envelop it in pure agony. Through the haze her hurt created, Page barely registered that one of the mercenaries was raising his sword to strike her._ No….

_As the blade drew near, Page grabbed it. She ignored how the metal bit into her palms, causing blood to well up and run down her arms. She wrenched hard upon the sword and, once it was free, buried it in her attacker’s gut. She yanked it free once more and spun to slash another mercenary across the stomach, splashing guts and gore across the once pristine white floor. Two mercenaries remained. They weren’t taunting her, anymore. Bloodstained and, once more, standing tall, Page looked between the two men as challengingly as she could. She didn’t give them time for posturing before she attacked._

_Sword and cleaver clashed as Page deflected a blow aimed for her throat with a slash at the mercenary’s chest. The other man tried to attack from the right and the rebel leader blocked his cudgel before disembowelling his companion. The man with the cudgel had to have known he was in over his head, but he attacked her nonetheless. Two slashes of Page’s stolen sword later, he was dead with a neatly severed shoulder, having been carved open almost the entire way through his ribcage._

_Page stood there, breathing heavily and clutching at her broken ribs. Each breath felt like a knife twisting deeper into her lungs. She was unsure if it was the floor that was spinning or if she was simply swaying in place. Tossing her blood-soaked dreadlocks from her face, she defiantly spat, “I can face anything.”_

_She half-turned as though to leave only to have a fist like a sledgehammer smack into her cheekbone._

_The force of the punch sent her crashing to the floor; her sword falling from her hand to skitter away from her. Unable to get to her feet now, Page tried to crawl away. She’d only gotten a few feet before a massive pair of hands grabbed onto the back of her shirt and trousers and threw her against the wall. She slid down the stone wall; her attacker lifted her limp body from the ground and wrapped his hands around her throat. It may have been delirium, but, as he strangled her, Page thought he’d said, “Not so tough now, are you, bitch?”_

_She scratched at his hands and eyes and kicked desperately at him, trying to get him to let go. But he had a rather firm grip on her and her movements began to grow sluggish. It was about then that Page realised she was afraid. Truly and utterly afraid._ I can’t do it _. Her futile attempts to dislodge his hands grew weaker and weaker._ I need…I need…help _. But as her vision began to cloud, she’d never felt more alone._

_The pressure instantly vanished from her neck and Page fell, coughing, to the floor. As she massaged her aching neck, trying to just breathe and to get her vision to clear, a pair of small, bare feet, barely covered by the hem of some red fabric, came into her line of vision._

_“You are never alone, Page. You have many allies, many people willing to risk their lives for you,” the mystery woman told her serenely. “I am always here; always watching.”_

Page awoke with a start. She’d fallen asleep on the map table again (evidence of her constant late hours) and now her neck was smarting from the odd angle. As she stood up, wiping sleep from her eyes and hair from her face, memories of the dream came slowly back to her. She hoped the creepy woman from her dream was just a figment of her over-worked imagination, though she couldn’t imagine how she’d dreamed her up.

She also, once more, questioned the virtues of trusting others. She’d trusted Kidd to find information and he’d ended up strung up in one of Reaver’s cages to be used as bait.  She’d trusted the Princess, and now she was missing. Everyone she tried to trust ended up disappointing her in one way or another, and she was utterly tired of having her trust betrayed. However, Page also recalled the feeling of being strangled in her dream, of slowly losing her life with no one to help save her. She didn’t want to die like that; didn’t want pride to be her downfall.

Page leaned on the map table, looking, to anyone not privy to her thoughts, as though she were studying it intently. There was so much left to do and so many decisions left to make…and she didn’t know who to trust. Rumours about the Princess combined with her and Finn’s timely disappearance was doing wonders for her paranoia. _Work now, worry later_. Page threw herself into her work once more, unsure who to trust.

She wasn’t even sure she could trust herself.

~ * ~

The first thing to penetrate her consciousness was that something wet was nudging her hand. It was extremely annoying and she wished it would stop. She didn’t want to wake up. Sleep was good and being awake only caused pain. She was so sick of pain. But the thing nudging her hand persisted and she began to wish she _was_ awake and could push it away.

And then she became aware of the voice.

“Princess, wake up.”

And then someone shook her.

_Go away. I just want to sleep…._

“I _do_ understand the need for beauty sleep, Princess, but you _really_ must wake up.”

 _Go away_ , she thought once more as she was shaken again.

“ _Wake up_ , dear. I can assure you this is the last place you could ever want to take a little nap. _Get up_ , Princess. I am _not_ going to carry you all the way back to town.”

Victoria softly moaned, trying and failing to tell he-of-the-big-egos to be quiet. _Really_ , did _no one_ have _any_ respect for sleeping people anymore?

“Princess, my patience is wearing thin. Either wake up _now_ , or I will leave you to make your own way back.”

She immediately forced open her eyes. Being that she was partially lying down, Victoria half expected to see the sky or the ceiling of a room. Or even a wall or some plant life across from her. She didn’t expect to find herself staring into a pair of very, very dark, very, very _blue_ eyes. _Blue_. Like the night sky in _Hell_.

“Welcome back,” Reaver said with appalling cheer as he sat back on his haunches.

Blinking groggily, Victoria slowly sat up. She rubbed the back of her head slowly, trying to soothe the ache there. “R-Reaver? Where—what hap—?” She frowned as the recollection of what had just transpired came back to her. Her eyebrows narrowed in anger as she glared at Reaver. “ _You hit me_!”

“Yes, I did…I should think it actually saved your life, too, as a matter of fact,” Reaver replied slowly and almost thoughtfully.

“I don’t care _what_ it did, you bastard. You could have _injured_ me, or worse!”

“First of all, I _didn’t_ harm you, so I do not really understand why you’ve a complaint. Secondly. I am _not_ a bastard. My parents _were_ married when I was conceived and they raised me _very well_ …to a point, considering they are now, in fact, _dead_.”

Victoria stared blankly at him, wondering what exactly he meant. She wondered if he was joking or not. Then she decided she didn’t really _want_ to know. “I—wait. Did you-do you mean I could have actually _died_ in there?”

The second the words left her mouth, she realised it was a really dumb question to ask.

Reaver got to his feet, dusting himself off with a distinctly disinterested air as Victoria clambered awkwardly to her own feet. He didn’t look at her as he answered, “Yes, I _did_ mean that. This really isn’t the ideal place for a conversation, is it?”

It wasn’t until Reaver pointed that out that Victoria finally took a look at her surroundings. They were still in Wraithmarsh, situated under an old, grey oak tree not too far from the entrance of the structure Reaver had unintentionally led her to earlier in the day. The morning’s mist and fog still clung to the ground, and, though the sun appeared to be high, the marsh was still a bleak, miserable grey. The feeling of wrongness in the air was stronger than it had been earlier and Victoria shuddered, not liking it in the slightest.

Reaver started to walk away and Victoria bolted after him, not wanting to be left behind. “Wait for me!”

He didn’t wait or even slow down. Victoria had to jog to catch up with him, and Nero followed, panting but wagging his tail, behind them. Without a single bit of care for his companions, Reaver led them up a path toward the dilapidated bridge and the drowning town.

“Reaver,” Victoria said again, catching Reaver’s arm. When he stopped to fix her with a bored stare, she added awkwardly, “Th-thank you. For…you know. But—”

“ _Don’t_ thank me.”

“ _But_ ,” she continued sharply, trying to hide her surprise at the coldness of Reaver’s tone as he pulled out of her grip, “I _still_ want answers.”

Their footsteps clunked as they crossed the old bridge, the weathered wood creaking violently in protest. Reaver had a difficult time not sighing. _And here we go…._ He hated when people demanded answers from him; he wasn’t the type to offer them freely if it didn’t suit him and it was always _much_ easier when he could simply decide to put a bullet into his questioner’s head for asking too much.

However, Victoria knew none of Reaver’s opinions on the matter (and probably wouldn’t have been too bothered either way) and ploughed ahead.

“What _happened_ in there? What were those—those _things?_ What were you doing? What was that place? And why—?”

“My, aren’t you _chatty_ when you’ve had a near death experience.”

Victoria blushed. “I just want answers. I think you owe me that much.”

“And _that_ , little Princess, is exactly where you are _wrong_. I do _not_ owe you _anything_.” They had stopped walking, coming to a halt in front of the bone altar. Victoria tried to turn away from him, wanting to continue walking, but Reaver caught her chin and forced her to look at him. Irritation flowed from him in waves as Reaver added bitingly, “You have no idea how the world _really_ works, do you? You expect everything to work only one way, don’t you? That _everything_ is black and white; good _will_ triumph over evil and the entire fiasco will be wrapped up in a pretty box to be forgotten about while the Heroes are praised. But allow me to let you in on a little secret, my dear: _the world doesn’t work in that manner_.” Reaver let her go roughly. “Such _idéaux_ will result in nothing more than your untimely demise…and we wouldn’t want _that_ now, would we? Don’t forget, _you_ followed _me_ ; I never asked for you to butt into my affairs.”

A flicker of anger pricked at Victoria. Who was _he_ to treat _her_ like a child? But the anger was soon replaced by a wave of embarrassment. Reaver…had a point. She _did_ expect the world to work in black and white. But why shouldn’t she? Why couldn’t the world be like that? Maybe, a little voice in the back of her head whispered, she needed to take a better look at the things around her.

Her train of thought was disrupted as she drew herself back into the present. Reaver was doing it again, standing too close for comfort. It was suddenly difficult to get a decent breath and she didn’t understand what emotion was starting to stir in her veins. She wanted to say it was hatred or anger for the life he had just needlessly taken, but she wasn’t sure. And, worst of all, she was beginning to _wonder_. Before she could go any further down that train of thought, she shoved it away. Heart pounding and face red, Victoria whirled around, determined to ignore it, and stomped off in a huff. Sometimes, Reaver _really_ just riled her up.

Victoria walked on without any idea of where she was going; while she hoped that it was back toward Bloodstone, she could have been heading into an area of Wraithmarsh that she’d never seen before. She was secretly glad when, after letting her struggle on for a while, Reaver walked ahead of her once more and led the way. She tried not to look at him, still struggling with a mixture of embarrassment, guilt, and gratitude that was clashing head on with her stubborn self-righteousness; against her will, however, she eventually glanced toward him and found that she couldn’t guess what he was thinking. Realizing she’d watched him for a moment too long, she tore her eyes away from him and forced herself to stare at the ground.

And so they walked on in silence.

Then, as if the occasional pockets of semi-hidden slushy and icy water and mud weren’t bad enough, it began to snow. It came down upon them quickly, and Victoria was sure that, had it been rain, it would have been pouring buckets down on them. She shivered, rubbing her arms and wishing she were like Nero and had fur (though having one of her coats would have been just as nice, actually).

Reaver, in contrast, was somewhat oblivious to the snow and he basked in the pleasure of _finally_ telling the silly little girl beside him to shut up with her uninformed pestering. He’d longed to do so since…well, he could say the precise moment he’d decided he wanted to tell her off so passionately was during his little party. He had almost done so, as well, but then he had kissed her and it had quenched his urge for violence so thoroughly that the immediate desire to tell her off for her little outburst had been promptly, though only momentarily, pushed from his mind. But after that… _interesting_ distraction, he had begun to dwell on it. The girl, and whatever insipid spell she was weaving, was insufferable. He loathed that he even partially enjoyed it. She had to be some sort of enchantress, for why else would he tolerate her attitude for so long? After all, it had been a very long time since someone had purposely vexed him so completely and lived to speak of it. Therefore, magic was the only logical explanation.

Both of them were so completely absorbed in ignoring each other, and by extension their environment, that they had no one to blame but themselves for what happened next.

They had just stepped beyond the ring of sepulchres when the wisps, which had been floating serenely over their heads, had become erratic and almost angry with their movements. As though severely infuriated, the wisps dove into the frozen granite-coloured ground. Before either of them could do more than be aware, hollow men, clawing their ways out from their icy prisons, surrounded them. Running was out of the question.

“Any suggestions?” Victoria asked hesitantly as she drew her knives. She, very clearly, remembered her few and vastly unpleasant encounters with the creatures. Almost all of which, at one point or another, had her completely outnumbered by the dead men. Where was a mortar when you needed one?

“Yes. Stay out of my way.”

A large hollow man wielding twin swords almost as large as Victoria herself lumbered toward her, bits of dead flesh dangling from its old bones. _Like hell I’m going to do that._ Victoria dove into the fray.

Being as hollow men were, in fact, skeletons, and Victoria knew nothing about the dark and perverse magics keeping them, for want of a better term, _alive_ , she wasn’t _actually_ certain how to _kill_ them. How do you kill that which was already long dead? As it turned out, what seemed to work best, in her opinion, was a very simple tactic: hit them until they stopped trying to take your head off.

A well-placed kick sent one of the hollow men stumbling back far enough for her to manoeuvre properly as she hacked and slashed. Victoria drove one blade into a hollow man’s eye before severing its spine. It fell to a pile of useless bones as the Princess dodged and dismantled another pair of walking dead. The boom of gunfire made a pleasant background noise to the fighting and made her feel a little more at ease. By Avo, she _loved_ a good fight.

“Would you like me to keep tally?” Reaver called, sounding cynical, though still possessed by morbidly good cheer as he blasted monsters to bits.

The Princess cursed as she barely dodged a rusted blade. She savagely and repeatedly plunged her knives into the ribs of her attacker to shatter the bones before driving the hollow man to the ground. “Do you really think we have time for that?”

She didn’t receive an answer.

There was no discernible end to the hollow men. As soon as one was felled, at least one other rose to take its place. There were several times Victoria had extremely close calls, and she was much too preoccupied to worry about how Reaver was faring. She figured he was a big boy and could take care of himself, so why worry and die because of it. But the snow was making fighting difficult. It lowered her visibility and melted on her over-heated skin, making her grip on her weapons slippery.

Mid-swing, she pivoted her hips and shoulders to add power to her attack as she slashed through an enemy. Victoria wove through the horde, having to block more often than she was comfortable with. Hollow men were slow, but powerful, and a damn sight better equipped than most soldiers. It didn’t help that they had absolutely no change in behaviour as their horde finally began to thin.

They were shooting at her. It was extremely annoying. Frustrated, Victoria threw one of her knives; she was supremely satisfied when it buried itself in the skull of a hollow man and the skeleton collapsed. Another hollow man with a rifle was turning toward her and the Princess summoned all of her anger and frustration and poured it into her Will. Flames flared in her hands, glowing brighter and more powerful with every passing second, showing that the effort she’d put into her Will practice finally had borne fruit. She lobbed the fireballs at the hollow man and felt a wonderful surge of satisfaction as the hollow man exploded.

For the first time since the fight began, she looked to Reaver…and flinched when she noticed the gun that he had aimed at her. It went off with a tremendous bang. Victoria waited for the bullet to strike her, and, when it didn’t, half-turned to discover the hollow man she thought she’d killed when she’d thrown her knife was only now crumbling to the ground.

“ _What…?_ ” was all she managed to ask in her shock. _What the hell is_ wrong _with you?_

“I had to make it more challenging for myself,” the deviant said lightly, holstering his gun.

Still baffled, Victoria turned and extracted her blade from the pile of bones. She sheathed both knives and started when she turned and found Reaver standing directly in front of her. _How does he_ do _that_?

“Forty two.”

“I—” Victoria’s train of thought promptly hit a wall and derailed, causing her to just stare blankly at him. “ _E-excuse me?_ ”

“Forty two hollow men. It’s how many I killed. You…weren’t keeping track, were you?”

“Of _course_ not.”

“I suppose that means I win, then.”

“ _No_. That makes it a _tie_.”

“I don’t think so.”

There was laughter in Reaver’s voice and Victoria slowly shook her head. She decided that this was one of the weirdest conversations she had ever been a part of and she wasn’t quite sure what to say about it. “Then, as the winner, could you, at the very least, let this loser borrow your coat? I’m _freezing_.”

He scoffed at her. “I think not! You should have brought your own coat before you came to spy on me.” When she glared up at him, he added, “And you _are_ bleeding.”

Victoria quickly looked down at her right arm to discover that he was right. She’d never even felt it happen. The blood was no longer flowing and so Victoria was unconcerned. She looked back up at Reaver, deciding that they were too close together again. The moment seemed to call for _something_ more; Victoria couldn’t fathom _what_ , though, and she didn’t really _want_ to. It was just too…uncomfortable.

“Then can we just go?” she asked, taking a step back so that she was a safe distance away from him. “I don’t like this place.”

She didn’t wait for an answer before leading the way on.

~ * ~

The sun had long since set by the time they reached Bloodstone and Reaver and Victoria’s pace had quickened the closer they had gotten to the little pirate town. Shivering, Victoria allowed Reaver to lead her through back alleys, trying to avoid as many people as possible. Occasionally, someone caught sight of their dirty and bloodied appearances and shrugged it off. It wasn’t all too uncommon a sight for someone to be in such a mess while in Bloodstone. She wondered if it was a weird thief thing to always sneak around or if Reaver was doing it for yet _another_ reason he’d neglected to tell her.

They reached the mansion faster than Victoria had thought likely and they both hurried into the warm foyer. The wonderful heat was like stepping into a warm bath and Victoria wondered if someone had made up the hearths; Reaver’s staff here in Bloodstone were like ghosts, for Victoria had not seen a single servant despite the rooms always being in perfect order. As soon as Reaver closed the front door behind them, Nero shook, splattering muddy water over the expensive rugs. Victoria winced. _Naturally, Nero just_ had _to shake_. She heard Reaver sigh and she shot him a guilty and apologetic look before racing up the stairs to get some distance between them.

It wasn’t until she had nearly reached her room, trying to cool the odd warmth in her gut—the same warmth that had been lurking there since just after the battle in Wraithmarsh—by thinking of how much she wanted to collapse into her bed and just sleep, that she noticed she was being stealthily followed. She didn’t hear a single sound that indicated anyone was behind her, but the back of her neck prickled with awareness, and she made herself pretend not to notice. Reaching the door in question, Victoria opened it and allowed Nero to burst into the bedroom. He trotted wearily up to the plush bed, hopped up, and curled into a somewhat dirty ball on the sheets. He eyed his mistress as if to ask her why she wasn’t doing the same and Victoria smiled at the sight. It was…unexpectedly cute, despite the mess. She wanted to join him, but there was one thing she needed to do first. Turning away from the collie, she turned and faced her follower.

Reaver looked different somehow, though she couldn’t place her finger on the exact reason why. It was as though everything about him was the same, same tempered grace, same insufferable pride and nauseating arrogance, but it was all _twisted_. His soul was twisted. Victoria paused a moment, wondering where _that_ had come from. _That was odd_.

“You look different,” she told him, head tilted slightly as she continued to try and find a logical reason for _why_ he did.

It was Reaver’s turn to pause, gloved hand frozen on his bedroom door’s doorknob. When he finally, slowly, turned to look at her, his expression was carefully blank, but he sounded genuinely curious as he enquired, “How so?”

Victoria shrugged. “I don’t know. Just… _different_. But the same.”

An eyebrow was sarcastically raised at her. “ _Really?_ ”

“Really,” she muttered, blushing, and added, “Am I supposed to apologize for sneaking around after you?”

“If you would like to. Do you suppose apologies count if you never mean them?”

“I guess not,” Victoria admitted.

They were quiet for a long moment, the space between them filling up with all the things they didn’t say. Reaver was watching as Victoria awkwardly shuffled her feet and she wondered what he was thinking.

“Don’t even consider it,” Reaver told her with a smirk when she stepped toward him. “I am _not_ going to let you cry all over me for carting you to safety.”

Victoria gave a little laugh, though she wasn’t really amused, and nodded. She knew. She didn’t want to cry on his shoulder; though there _was_ something she wanted from him.

 _Whatever I invite upon myself, the fault is none but mine_. “Still,” she started, walking up to him, “I know you don’t want to hear it, but…thank you.” With a soft smile, she stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. She pulled away, smile widening at the faint surprise on his face, and added, “Good night, Reaver.”

She started to walk away, feeling oddly giddy, when Reaver caught her and pulled her back to him. Her breath caught as she unexpectedly found herself pinned between him and the wall, her legs around his waist to keep her from falling.

“Really, Princess, I _must_ teach you subtlety. There is no telling what sort of _nasty_ situations you could find yourself in if I don’t.” He seemed positively _thrilled_ by the prospect. And then he kissed her.

As taken aback as Victoria was, it didn’t take her long to respond. She kissed him back fervently; the warmth in her gut growing to an inferno because, by Avo, this was _right_ and she _wanted_ it. Their kiss deepened, their lips grinding together almost needily.

“I was making an effort to be friendly, and you ruined the moment,” Victoria panted when she pulled away for air. “You _always_ ruin the moment.”

“Allow me to make it up to you.”

He kissed her, greedily, again; as before, she yielded to him. He slipped his tongue in to taste her, thrilled when she let him and amused when she tried and failed to bite him. He let her down, slowly leading her toward his bedroom’s door. He pulled her back to him so he could suck and nibble at her lower lip before trailing soft, almost teasing kisses down her neck. And Victoria let him, eager to discover what would become of her under his all-too-skilled hands.

And Victoria let herself go.


	14. The Battle of One

The entire affair had started, as most things between them did, with a really dumb argument. They were sailing back to Bowerstone and, in comparison to their first journey, the seas were relatively calm. Unfortunately, calm seas also meant Victoria had quickly grown bored of staring around. She’d given it two days before she finally caved in and, as nicely as she could manage, asked Reaver if there was anything she could help the crew with. Reaver had simply reminded her that she had been banned from such activities before resuming his maintenance work on his pistol. What followed was, while not one of their worst arguments, a rather brutal bit of bickering that was concluded—in Victoria’s opinion, at least—when the Princess abruptly walked away from Reaver and, instead, went to go read in bed, tuning out his entire existence.

Annoyed, she resolved to ignore him for as long as she could and, with most of a room between them, it seemed to be fairly easy to do. Luckily for her, her book was fascinating—it detailed historical legends of immortals and also contained a small collection of essays on the possibility of immortals still residing in Albion—though she still had mixed thoughts on why Reaver had had it in his collection. She focused on the words, taking it in as attentively as possible and refused to look up when, apparently finished working on the gun, Reaver tried to draw her attention.

 _Not going to work_ , she thought stubbornly as she turned a page.

“Princess,” he called evenly, not indicating what he was thinking or what he wanted from her.

 _I’m not talking to you. Go away_. She heard his chair gently scrape against the floor boards and then everything was quiet. Victoria wondered vaguely if he’d given in and left, but she wasn’t about to look up and confirm it. Instead, she kept her attention focused on the book. Minutes passed and, though Victoria could hear the crew members moving and talking against the ever-present backdrop of waves lapping against _Arachne’s_ hull, she heard no other movement inside the room. She slowly relaxed, deciding that she was alone and that now was the perfect opportunity to get farther into her book.

“ _Victoria_ ,” Reaver murmured so close to her ear that she very nearly jumped in surprise. “Do you _really_ intend for me to _make_ you listen?”

She wetted her lips involuntarily and swallowed hard, but did not look up from the page she was now pretending to read. Her heart pounded in her ears and she had to work to control her breathing. For once, the reaction hadn’t been created by fear, but by excitement. A week ago, a challenge like that would have terrified her. Now…she was curious to learn just _how_ he intended to earn her attention.

She barely repressed a yelp of terror as her body was lifted from the bed. She wanted to scream that she was going to fall, and she bit her tongue to keep the words from spilling forth. _You’re fine,_ she told herself. _He’s not going to drop you. Just ignore him. He won’t do anything_. Victoria forced herself not to panic but couldn’t slow her breathing. The lack of control she had over what her body was doing…she didn’t understand it, but, as much as it scared her, a small part of her welcomed it—encouraged it, even. _He better not be thinking about throwing me overboard_.

It was quickly apparent he had something a bit more involved than simply dropping her into the sea in mind as he sat her down on the edge of his desk. He insinuated himself into the chair before her and, trying to keep her focus on anything but him, Victoria awkwardly crossed her legs. Reaver seemed to take that as a hint to start there. He slowly traced her thighs, raptly following her curves with a feather-light touch until he reached her hips; her breath hissed outward as he pulled her as close as he could get her without taking her off of the desk. His hands didn’t linger long, trailing back down her to dip between her legs so he could easily uncross them. Apparently satisfied with how he’d arranged her, he smirked up at her as though asking if she was paying attention now.

Victoria narrowed her eyes challengingly, daring him to try harder.

He lowered his head to press a kiss to the inside of her right knee; even through her leather trousers, the brush of his cheek against her inner thigh accentuated the tease as, one after the other, he left a row of kisses leading up her thigh. Her eyes fluttered closed as she savoured both his (successful) seduction and the steadily growing pool of lust simmering in her gut, and she nearly growled in annoyance when Reaver abruptly pulled up short. Her admonishment died on her tongue as, rising from his seat, he brushed his lips against the hollow of her neck and her body jolted in a mixture of pleasure and faint pain when he nipped at her.

His hands worked on undoing her blouse’s buttons and, after each one, he followed up with either a soft peck or a nip that was a little too sharp. “ _Still_ intent on ignoring what I have to say?”

She opened her mouth to tell him that he now had her full attention but what came out instead was: “I didn’t even know you were here.”

Reaver completely froze and fixed her with a look that was both bemusedly enchanted and utterly disbelieving. He leaned in like he was considering kissing her in defiance of her words only to pause at the last second. His fingers flexed, nails grazing her abdomen, and she nearly gasped at the ticklish sensation of it. _Oh no_ , Victoria thought, just a tiny bit nervous as Reaver’s expression grew impish in response.

He dropped down to sit on his haunches and she squirmed, feeling his breath against her stomach. Victoria was just about to say she hadn’t meant what she’d previously said when, as unhurriedly as possible, he ran the tip of his tongue from the waistband of her trousers up to her navel. She shuddered, toes curling from the tickle-y feeling, and she flung her hand out to grab him. At the last second, she remembered the book she was still holding onto, but it was far too late; the large tome slipped from her hand and fell, colliding with Reaver’s shoulder in its descent to the cabin’s floor.

Victoria winced, barely making out what she thought was a curse as Reaver hissed in pain. _Um…oops?_

~ * ~

Victoria sat back on her knees, staring down at the multitude of coloured fabrics and other various items before her, and considered setting her trunk on fire. After a long glare, and a mental reminder that she would have nothing to wear if she burned her clothes (it was unlikely Reaver would help her buy anything to replace her old clothes), she huffed and went back to rummaging.

Her mood had taken a turn for the worse upon returning from Bloodstone. She supposed her mood would have soured sooner if not for how well she’d been distracted lately, but, now that she was back in Reaver’s mansion and they were both back in business mode, she couldn’t help but dwell on all the things that were troubling her. It was just after breakfast, actually, when everything had finally hit home for her. Reaver had gone off to do…whatever it was he did when she wasn’t around, and so Victoria decided to use her time to sneak down into the lower regions of the mansion to see if she could have a chat with William. Though the conversation had, in her opinion, gone well, on the walk back up to the main living area her mind had summoned up the memory of the man Reaver had taken into Wraithmarsh—the man who had turned old and feeble before her eyes and whom she had allowed to die so she wouldn’t be caught five seconds earlier than she had been. Anger at herself flared, lashing at her as she sat on the floor of her and Reaver’s bedroom. She couldn’t believe herself. What was she, a tramp? Some whore of a noblewoman who only thought of herself? A failure of a Hero that kept putting herself above others?

With an annoyed sigh, she slammed the lid of the trunk closed, got to her feet, and began to pace.

While she didn’t—couldn’t—regret any of the times she’d joined Reaver in bed, she could make no excuses for her inaction. She was getting lax and sloppy, first choosing to sulk instead of fight for the people Reaver had wanted to use in his Wheel of Misfortune and then again in that temple…building… _thing_ in Wraithmarsh. Though she knew, realistically, that the chances of her being able to do anything for those forced to participate in the Wheel would have been almost non-existent, that didn’t mean she couldn’t have volunteered to go in their place. And that man in the marsh…she didn’t know why he’d been killed—though she had her suspicions—but she still felt she should have saved him. Or at the very least, made an attempt to kill those shadow men whose words had seeped into her veins like poison, turning her courage to fear. The memory of her helplessness made her want to hit something. It was just so…pathetic.

_“Daddy,” the little girl whispered as she clung to her father; she had heard strange noises outside her window and they had unsettled her, reminding her of hobbes, “I’m scared.”_

_“Why are you scared, my love?”_

_“What if the monsters come and get me in the dark?” Her voice dropped even lower, “What if they_ eat _me?”_

_Sparrow laughed and tucked his daughter’s hair behind her ear. “That won’t happen.”_

_“Why not, daddy?”_

_“Because I’ll be here to keep you safe.”_

Her childish fear was one thing, but that it had potentially led to a man’s death was more than she could accept. That she’d allowed herself to forget what had happened only to crawl in bed with the one responsible for it all…it was infuriating and she couldn’t help but be sickened by herself. Victoria resisted the urge to let her temper run wild—she wanted to overturn one of Reaver’s bedside tables, to smash the many expensive, pretty things he’d converted into ornaments, and to cause as much destruction as the mansion could withstand. But she knew it wouldn’t fix anything even if it did seem like it _might_ make her feel a little bit better. She flung herself down into a chair to seethe.

It was hours later that Reaver, who probably neither knew nor cared what he was about to willingly get himself into, walked in on her. In contrast to the Princess, he was in a fine mood. There were still things to be done for the day, of course, but they would be sorted out easily enough, so why worry?  It was this line of thought that kept him from even _pretending_ to worry when he laid eyes upon the very pissed off Princess.

“I should have expected to find you here; sulking. Though I can’t imagine _why_ you would want to waste your effort on it.”

Her hands balled in the grey silk of her dress and she grit her teeth. “No. You _wouldn’t_ , would you?”

Reaver mentally paused as he continued looking through a drawer. A distant part of his mind tried to decide what he had done that day that Victoria would have already heard about. He came to the conclusion that she couldn’t have possibly heard anything yet, so he couldn’t be in trouble with her. Yet. So it had to be some strange _female thing_. Maybe she was PMSing? “I can’t _know_ what I haven’t been _told_ , can I? As _amazing_ as I am, I’m not a _mind reader_.”

“I’d think _asking_ would be a simple solution,” Victoria said shortly.

He laughed at her, giving her a knowing look. “Oh, no, no, little Victoria. I _know_ how this plays out. Run along and sulk, dear. Leave me out of this.”

Victoria scoffed at his patronizing tone, reaching the end of her temper. “Grow up.”

“ _Excuse_ me?”

“You heard me. Stop acting like such a brat and _grow up_.”

 _Don’t shoot the girl. Don’t shoot the girl. Don’t shoot the girl_. Age had always been a… _tricky_ subject for Reaver, even in a metaphorical behavioural sense. Gut instinct said to just shoot the one mentioning it. In all reality, he knew that it would actually be _beyond_ stupid to do that this time. He forced himself to relax, pleased when he realised his expression hadn’t changed in the slightest to mirror his annoyance. “If I ask, will you cease with this nonsense?”

“No. I didn’t want to talk to you, anyway.”

 _Then why are you acting like this?!_ “Have it your way, then, love.”

“It’s not as though you’d get it, anyway,” Victoria muttered as Reaver, exasperatedly, turned to leave. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand feeling guilty about something.”

Reaver stopped. Avo help him, he was going to _strangle_ her if she didn’t make up her mind. Or gag her, at the very least…which could be fun if he really thought about it. “Is _that_ why you’re insisting upon tormenting me? Some…some _ridiculous_ little moral compass issue?”

Victoria fidgeted with the chain belt around her waist and abruptly said, “I could have saved him.”

Though he wasn’t entirely certain exactly who she was talking about, his opinion stayed remarkably the same as any other time he’d ever heard someone lamenting not being able to save someone. “What you ‘might’ have been able to do _doesn’t_ really matter now, does it? What is in the past has passed. Get over it.”

“Well. _Excuse me_ if I’m not as cold hearted as you that I can just _do_ that at will,” she snapped, instantly feeling guilty. She added softly, “Haven’t you _ever_ felt guilty about something?”

Reaver’s face gave away nothing. “Never.”

“I don’t believe that. And I don’t think you do, either.”

“Then you’re a fool.”

“Don’t you _dare_ mock me, Reaver. You’re the fool if you expect me to believe your _nightmares_ aren’t a sign that you’re guilty about _something_.”

 _Ba-bang! **Crash!**_ Victoria’s heart seemed to stop as a jolt of fear and adrenalin flashed though her. The two shots had been so quick they were nearly simultaneous. Victoria stared, petrified, at the smoking barrel of Reaver’s pistol. He’d missed her by a hair’s breadth. No…not missed. He’d done it on purpose, aiming to scare her. It had worked.

With the detached serenity known only to the psychotic, the traumatized, and the grieving, Reaver lowered and reholstered his gun. “I never liked that vase.”

Victoria sagged in her chair, knowing that whatever Reaver had shot was probably priceless and wondering why he hadn’t just shot her instead. Reaver went to pick something up from one of the bookcases, his expression showing nothing of his emotions though every single movement he made radiated repressed rage. Despite that he’d not said a word on the matter, he had gotten his point across very, very clearly. Starting to panic, Victoria bolted from the room.

She took refuge in the library, stumbling and falling to her knees when she was safely alone and locked in. _Stupid, stupid, stupid. What was I thinking?_ At times like this, she didn’t understand herself. Her heart pounded in her ears and her face was hot; she’d never felt more like a total imbecile for pulling such a stupidly low blow. She should have just waved him off. She should have just said “whatever” and then gone back to her brooding. But _no_. She’d had to go and try to make a _point_. A very poor point. _Avo,_ _I’m such an idiot_.

Victoria slowly pulled herself up to sit a little more comfortably on her knees, wiping at her eyes with the hem of her dress.

She needed to get out of this house. And she needed out as soon as she could or she was certain it would drive her mad. Victoria fingered the guild seal where it attached to her belt. She was aware that she _could_ just run. _Reaver will_ never _just let you walk out_. But the front door was unlocked as always. _The guards will stop you before you get anywhere near the road_. They could try, yes, but she was ready for them. _You’re still engaged to him! He’s still keeping a close eye on you!_ But Reaver was so angry with her that he wouldn’t even look at her.

She couldn’t make up her mind, and she was afraid. So very afraid. Victoria was sick of living in fear. Sick of watching her step and her words. She quickly made up her mind. But, before she _could_ do anything…she had a couple things she needed to get first.

~ * ~

Things had not been progressing well for a while now, but today was the first time in a long while that everything had basically collapsed before her. The map room was a cacophony of voices though, for once, Page’s voice was not among them. She was tired. Tired, anxious, and frustrated with everyone. And so she stood there, arms crossed with her fingers tapping against her muscular bicep, as she glared at the map table as hard as she could; as if, by staring at it, a plan would miraculously fall out of thin air before her.

She glanced over at Walter, frowning thoughtfully. With his wild grey hair—that went for his bristling facial hair as well—and his bright red doublet, Sir Walter Beck was ostentatious and, usually, the life of the party. Oftentimes, he was the only one who could keep everyone from giving up hope. However, the larger man had fallen silent, sparing them no bit of wise advice to force a settlement of ideas and no witty jape to lighten the mood. Instead, Walter’s aging countenance was creased with the same weariness Page possessed. Walter’s weariness, however, was not born from overwork, but from an almost paternal worry for _her_. The Princess. Whom Page didn’t want to think about at that moment. Especially after a certain tree had told her the girl had, secretly, disappeared from where she was supposed to be. Despite how much the information frustrated her, it also was fairly intriguing. Logan hadn’t yet made any kind of official statement or otherwise fuss, which was odd. Usually, if something happened that concerned the King in any way, there was a sudden increase in military personnel on the streets and it was difficult for the Resistance members to move around with any sort of ease. This time…there had been nothing. And, when she took into account just how much of a deal Logan had turned all that engagement news into, Page thought it was highly suspect that he wouldn’t report that his sister was missing. Unless the King didn’t know, which raised an entirely new set of questions (mainly about Reaver) for her to think about.

Page shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts so she could focus on the matter at hand, and look towards where Kidd and another member were at odds over what to do next. Normally, everyone was able to share their opinions easily at meetings. But everyone’s tempers had been pushed to their limits and their conversation was getting heated to the point where Page had the feeling it would soon come to blows if someone didn’t intervene.

“That’s enough!” she called to them, her patience finally at its end. “Quiet!”

The man arguing with Kidd wasn’t happy. “What gives you the right to—?”

“I thought _I_ was the leader here, not you.”

She watched with a grim expression as the man coloured and went silent.

“As I was saying earlier,” the dark woman continued, “I don’t think we’ll be getting any further today. Let’s spend tonight gathering more information and we’ll reconvene tomorrow.”

One of the other members, a former soldier of the Swift brigade who had shed his old uniform in order to blend in better—she thought his name might have been Gibson—raised his hand awkwardly.

“You don’t need to raise your hand. What is it?” she asked brusquely.

“Well, why—why aren’t we doin’ what Swift said to do? You know…go to Aurora and all that?” the nervous soldier said quietly.

“It is an unexpected move, and all we would need is to acquire a ship,” Walter pointed out, calming the soldier some with his concurrence.

“As far as we know,” Page said bluntly, “Aurora is a dead land. Who could help us there?”

The soldier’s face fell and he turned his gaze down to his feet.

Another man spoke up. “Wha’ about the Princess?”

“What about her?” Page shot back, not liking his tone. She could tell by the look on his face, Walter didn’t either.

“How does we know she ain’t out there, opening ‘er royal trap about us? We should find ‘er. Make sure,” he replied with a leer.

A couple people murmured agreement with him, but quickly went silent at the dangerous look on Page’s face. It probably helped keep them from arguing when Walter made a point to put a hand on the hilt of his sword as though he were readying for a fight. She put a comforting hand on Walter’s shoulder to help calm him down, but Page’s voice carried more ice than a glacier as she began, “The Princess—”

“The Princess,” a new voice said sharply, cutting her off, “was regretfully detained.” The voice softened as they turned toward it, “But she is quite glad to be back.”

No one seemed like they quite knew what to do. They all stared at the door as though they were staring at a ghost. Perhaps, in a strange sense, they were. Her long hair hung, knotted and lank, down her back; the bottom of her ash-coloured dress was in tatters up to her thighs. Covered in mud, blood, and scratches, she swayed slightly on her feet (by which a panting border collie sat faithfully). She looked about dead, but it was most definitely the Princess.

Page wanted to greet her warmly, but she could only stare, a flurry of questions churning through her mind. She was unsure whether the emotion she suddenly felt breaking over her was suspicion or relief. She knew she ought to be happy about this development, but she also had to wonder if the Princess had really only just been able to return to them or if she’d just now been set loose to get information on them.

“Well, _balls!_ It’s really you,” Walter said with a partial chuckle. Relief and joy seemed to radiate from him, and Page realised then that Walter clearly wasn’t thinking along the same vein as she was.

Victoria gave them all a tiny, awkward smile, though her eyes narrowed at those who had spoken against her. “So…what have I missed?”

Someone in the group laughed. The man who had wanted to silence the Princess huffed, crossed his arms, and turned away.

 _It doesn’t matter if she’s here to betray us, we need her_ , Page told herself. Page beckoned Victoria over, pretending she wasn’t as weary as she felt. She could already tell that it was going to be a long night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you really think it would be so easy?


	15. Fight And Flight

In a very dark corner of the Riveter’s Rest pub, two figures were busy keeping to themselves. They both were mostly covered—one in a heavy coat and the other in  a velvet cloak, both with deep hoods—and it was difficult for any of the other patrons to figure out anything about them save that both of them were tall and that, while one was of large girth, the other was lithe. The lengths they’d gone to remain completely anonymous and their secretive behaviour put them at odds with the cheery nature of the rest of the pub and its patrons, keeping everyone but the barmaid from approaching them. Well, the large dog lying under the table, which growled threateningly whenever someone approached them, helped a bit, too.

However, the pair and their dog weren’t bothering anyone, so no one really minded them too much.

“I just feel odd,” the smaller of the figures murmured into her slightly chipped mug of tea. “It’s as though I don’t know if I _did_ something wrong or if I’m _currently_ doing something wrong. Nothing makes sense. I’m just so… _angry_ all the time. Angry and scared and confused.” She sighed. “Do you think something is _wrong_ with me, Walter?”

Walter took a long drink of ale and set his tankard down heavily, keeping an eye on both her and the pub’s door. “No, but I think you’re worrying too much.”

“How so?”

“What affect does what Reaver wants, what Logan wants, what your father _might_ have wanted, have on you _right now?_ ”

Victoria thought for a long moment, tracing the rim of her mug. Her finger caught in the chips occasionally, but she kept tracing. “None, I suppose. I’m sure Reaver’s quite angry with me, but…unless he’s standing right behind me—” she glanced in the nearby darkened window pane to make sure no one was standing behind her— “then he can’t really do anything to me, can he?” She dropped her hand from the mug, knowing that wasn’t entirely true. Reaver probably knew her every move without having to be standing behind her and it was only a matter of time before he caught up with her. “But we wouldn’t be here if Logan hadn’t done everything he did—we wouldn’t be stuck like this, fearing what he’d do to us if he found us.” Victoria cut herself off with a sigh and quietly added, “How is this meant to help me, Walter? What am I supposed to do?”

“It—”

The pub’s clock striking half after the hour cut him off. They both looked from each other, to the clock, and then back, knowing what it meant and Victoria felt a nudge of annoyance. They’d come to the pub to catch up and relax a bit before embarking on the missions Page had set for them, but Victoria didn’t feel any more peace of mind than before. The two most powerful men in Albion were going to be against her soon and she wasn’t looking forward to the fallout. But she couldn’t stop, now. _We can do this_ , she told herself. _It’s just stealing a ship…it’s not like it’s a difficult thing to do_.

Walter rose to his feet and Victoria coaxed Nero out from under the table. “I think it’s time we got ready.”

~ * ~

Victoria caught the body before it could hit the ground and make any unnecessary noise. She crept forward, gesturing for the soldier in her shadow to hurry up. Gibson was a much more excitable lad than she’d expected him to be, excitable but nervous. He kept tripping over his feet. In a way, Victoria couldn’t blame him for being so anxious. She was _very_ uneasy about the labyrinth of back alleys and warehouses that lied between them and the docks.

The cramped quarters were going to make it difficult to fight without earning a serious injury or getting boxed in. She tried to squash down the feeling that they were doomed, but couldn’t quite wish away her pessimism. This was going to be tricky.

They slipped through a set of gates and into an encampment of guards. The reason guards needed to be camped out in the middle of Bowerstone Industrial in such frigid weather was beyond her, but Avo forbid she questioned her brother’s control over his own guard. There were no guards near the gates, so they were free to enter without someone raising an alarm. However, there _was_ a group of them, maybe a dozen or so yards away, huddled around an old metal barrel full of fire. Even from where she stood, she could hear them complaining.

Gibson lifted his rifle, poised to fire, and Victoria quickly stopped him.

“Don’t,” she whispered. “We don’t need an entire squadron firing at us.”

The youth nodded a quiet, “yes, ma’am,” and re-slung his rifle over his shoulder before drawing his sword.

Victoria led them through the deepest shadows; hand on the handle of her massive war hammer. She was glad she had chosen to bring a hammer instead of a sword after she’d finally been able to access the Sanctuary and Jasper had gotten her cleaned up; it would keep Gibson from getting too distracted by her backside.  She loved Jasper, she really did, and she’d missed him terribly and she had been thrilled when she finally was able to see him, but sometimes she _wondered_ about him. After all, short trousers and stockings? Who _ever_ had worn such a thing into a fight?! The _exposure_ the wearer risked…but, then again, Jasper picked out the clothes and Victoria just wore them. (Besides, she had to admit, they were pretty comfortable, even if it was really too cold to wear them.)

The guards didn’t notice them until Victoria’s hammer had crushed one of the men’s skulls and sent him flying into a wall. They began shouting for reinforcements, drawing their swords, but two of them went down quickly with a couple shots from Gibson’s rifle and the last pair met a similar end at the end of Victoria’s hammer.

“We should be going, miss,” Gibson called as the Princess holstered her hammer. “Someone will have heard all that.”

The air was deathly still around them but, heart pounding in her throat, Victoria knew an alarm had probably been raised. “You’re right. Let’s go.”

They darted down alleyway after alleyway, killing the few royal guards who got in their way as stealthily as they could manage. Victoria had a bad feeling about this mission. There should have been far more guards approaching them by now—it was a naval dock they were trying to reach, after all—but there was only the bare minimum  of guards posted about and she doubted they’d been withdrawn because of the weather.  So either Page and Walter’s distraction had already drawn most of the guards to their location…or it was a trap. She sincerely hoped it was the former.

Preoccupied with her thoughts, Victoria went to hurry into a warehouse and Gibson caught her arm at the last minute. “Careful, miss.” When Victoria noted the barrel she’d almost walked into, he added, “Gun powder. Dangerous stuff. Would hate to see you get blown to bits, ma’am.”

She gave him a grim, tight-lipped smile. “Thank you.”

They entered the warehouse, and immediately had to dive for cover as they came under a hail of gunfire. From where they stood, she saw half a dozen men all with thick, silver-plated body armour. She was beginning to wish her brother hadn’t been so concerned for his guard’s health.

As Gibson engaged those closest to them, Victoria considered those who were farther, and therefore _trickier_ to shoot, from them. One of the guards Gibson was shooting at dropped, dead as could be, as Victoria shot at one of the others. The pistol went off with a tremendous bang and the knee of her target was obliterated. Victoria needed a second to overcome her surprise. She had _borrowed_ the gun, a Dragonstomper .48 according to the engraving on the red and gold metal, from Reaver right before she’d ran away. Alright, so she’d borrowed it without permission, but he’d get it back. Probably. If she didn’t die anytime soon.

Her surprise was short lived, however, as the man she’d shot was now trying to shoot her despite his injury. She put a bullet between his eyes, before doing the same to the last visible target.

“The other two went up,” Gibson informed her.

“I saw. Come on.”

Three-quarters of the way up the stairs later, they were hurrying back down a few steps for safety. The last two guards were, unfortunately, much better shots than the four below had been. Leaning against the side of the stair, Victoria’s eyes fell on the barrel she’d nearly ran into earlier.

“Gibson, I’ve an idea. Go take cover.”

She could see in his face that the soldier didn’t want to, but he relented and did as he was told when the Princess crawled up the stairs and took aim at a gunpowder barrel. The powder exploded on contact, blasting the platform apart. The guards were killed immediately and Victoria went flying. She crashed into a wall, landing on some crates a second or so later. Her head ached a mite and her shoulder and upper back throbbed with pain, but she couldn’t stop the smile that broke out over her face. _Ow…that was fun_. She wondered if she could do it again some other time.

“Gibson? Are you alright?” she called as she clambered down from the crates and onto the floor.

“Fine, ma’am,” came the boy’s somewhat amazed voice. “Are you okay, miss?”

“Yes. Let me clear a way for you.”

Working together, they cleared rubble and goods, most of which were miraculously unharmed, aside and passed through the warehouse. Outside, though, was where they ran into trouble.

It looked like every guard in Bowerstone that was not occupied by Page and Walter was lying in wait for them. _Oh, shit._ She suddenly regretted being so critical about not seeing any guards before. Victoria drew her hammer as Gibson readied his rifle, lucky for the few seconds of surprise that their entrance caused. But, before either of them could attempt to begin fighting for their lives, an enormous explosion rocked the area.

The supports of a loading crane that was nearly the size of a small house had been blown out. There was an ominous cracking of damaged timber before, faster than seemed possible, the entire structure fell over, crushing everything in its way; sending about half of the guards to their deaths. Victoria felt a jolt of pride. _Page, you have_ wonderful _timing_.

But the guards recovered quickly and, before Victoria was even fully aware of what if, she and Gibson were under attack. A sword barely missed her, nicking her cheek just slightly, and she responded by slamming her hammer into her attacker’s chest. And then there was nothing but fighting.

Victoria used her Will to thin the guards out, and, as they grew distracted by the results of her various spells, Gibson used the guard’s own stashes of gunpowder against them. In short order, the docks were swarmed with periodic explosions, waves of fire, bolts of lightning, tornados, and the occasional giant icicles raining from the heavens. But there was only so much they could do from afar and it quickly became a matter of weaving through their manufactured chaos to finish off the remaining guards.

A blow to one of the guard’s stomachs with her hammer rewarded her with a spray of gastric fluid. Victoria didn’t stop to admire her handiwork as she whirled and smashed another’s skull in. By then, one of the other guards had caught on. Not wanting to go as quickly as his fellows, he brought up his sword, blocking as she swung at him. The Princess’s hammer was not made for sustained one-on-one fighting but for short, brutal attacks with lots of damage; against a sword at close range it was almost useless, and soon the weapon flew from her hands to clatter against the cobblestone street some distance away. Annoyed, she lashed out and promptly kicked him in the crotch. When he dropped to his knees, she drew one of her knives and buried the blade up under his jaw. But there wasn’t any time to stop and be satisfied with her handiwork—there were still too many guards nearby. She ended up losing track of Gibson as she fought, the noise and all the royal guards too much of a distraction for her to keep a close eye on the youth. Victoria darted through the men, driving her knives into the spinal cords of those who weren’t facing her and slicing the throats and bellies of those who were. Every once in a while, one of the guards got in a lucky strike and Victoria would respond in kind, killing them just a touch more brutally than she normally would have bothered to.

Much to her surprise, the sea of soldiers was reduced to only a handful and, not bothering to continue hand-to-hand combat, she killed them with a round of shots from the Dragonstomper. Her heart still thudding in her ears, she tried to even out her breathing and relax for a moment. _That wasn’t too bad_ , she thought. _I thought they might overpower us, but Page’s trap really helped get rid of them all_. Calmer now, Victoria turned to praise Gibson for his fighting skills and frowned when she didn’t see him anywhere. “Gibson? Are you alright?”

There was no answer.

Worried, she looked through the sea of violet and silver clothed corpses for him. Spotting a man in a red coat lying against a wall, she raced over to him.

“Gibson!” she called, relieved. That relief turned to horror when she knelt beside him and realised that he wasn’t going to be alright. Despite that he had been shot in the neck near his shoulder, he was somehow still alive. Blood was everywhere and he was struggling to breathe. He tried to tell her something, but it was too low for Victoria to hear. “What did you say? What can I do?”

He caught her hand as she tried to reach out for him. “Leave…me….”

“What? No!”

“ _Leave_ me,” the young man said as forcefully as he could manage. Blood bubbled at his wound as he tried to take a breath.

“I can’t. I can’t just do that, I—we’ll find a way to help you. I’ve got healing potions. I—”

“No,” he wheezed, coughing when he tried in vain to take another breath. “Please, my…lady. You n-need to get…out of here and finish the mission. Just…p-put me out of my misery…and _go._ ”

Her heart contracted painfully and she struggled not to pull away. She didn’t want to leave him or kill him—she didn’t even think she could manage to harm him if she tried—but seeing him in pain like this.... “I can’t,” she said again. “When Page and Walter get here we can find a way to get you to a doctor.”

“No. You can’t…save me…and I don’t want…to live…and be use…less to you. We…did well, m’lady…was an honour…to serve you…”

Gibson was fading and he struggled to keep a firm grip on her hand. Victoria wanted to cry and scream and convince him to let her help him, but she knew he wouldn’t last until Page and Walter got there. In the end, it all came down to whether he suffered a lot before he died or just for a short while. She drew and raised the pistol. “I’m sorry.”

The gun went off.

The echo slowly faded and the air grew eerily still and quiet. After a moment, the sound of things burning and the water lapping against the docks seemed to return, but Victoria ignored it. Shaking, she lowered the Dragonstomper and closed Gibson’s unseeing eyes. She kissed his forehead, unsure what to do or how to express her gratitude to the dead man who had always acted as though she were already the Queen. Never before had she felt like a murderer for killing someone.

Like a zombie, she got to her feet and went to retrieve her fallen hammer. Everything she’d done for the revolution passed before her eyes. Every life she’d ended, all the families she’d destroyed. And for what? Sibling rivalry, as Reaver had once called it? And…and Gibson. He’d had his whole life ahead of him. All that he could have done…all gone, now. She’d never been more disgusted with herself.

A distant part of her mind recalled a dream she’d had while living with Reaver; in it, she recalled being asked if all she saw before her was the revolution she had wanted. She stared unseeingly out over the dark water. _Was_ this the revolution she’d wanted? No. No, it wasn’t.

About fifteen minutes later, one of the nearby warehouse’s doors exploded open, revealing Page and Walter, Nero at their feet. They were battling a small group of royal guardsmen, and they were beating them very soundly. Victoria watched with blank eyes as they finished them off.

“Where are the others?” Victoria asked emotionlessly. Nero ran to her side and she scratched his ears without really seeing him.

“Getting rid of the guards following us. We should be able to use this boat,” Page added, heading down the dock to where an armoured steamship (most likely one belonging to Reaver’s company) was anchored at the dock.

 _Ship_ , Victoria mentally corrected, remembering when Lawson had had to continuously do the same to her. It was ironic, she supposed, that she had run from Reaver to get away from chaotic emotions and fear, she had then thrown herself into the Resistance once more to avoid thinking about him…and now she almost wished she were back with him. At least there she _felt_ something, even if it wasn’t a pleasant emotion. At that moment, she felt nothing at all.

Walter, however, picked up on her mood. He placed a gentle, almost fatherly hand on her shoulder. “Are you alright?”

“I’m _fine_ ,” she said laconically, shaking him off.

“And Gibson?”

“Dead,” she told him, breath hitching slightly in the middle of the word. She licked her chapped lips and squared her shoulders. “I’m going to help Page. The faster we leave the better.”

She didn’t give Walter a chance to say anything before she walked away, her dog trailing after her. She didn’t want to be comforted just yet—she didn’t deserve it.

They got the ship in order and set sail, making way from Bowerstone as quickly as the little steam-powered ship’s paddles would go. And, as they sailed, Victoria had the strangest feeling that she had somehow wronged _him_. And then only one thought chased itself around her head over and over. _Murderer…murderer…murderer…_.

~ * ~

The city, Bowerstone, was crumbling around him. Consumed by flame, the streets burned like cracked veins. Logan looked down on the pandemonium without expression. From here, he was unable to act—even if he’d had a plan _to_ act.

It was clear that this was an attack against him. The rebels were becoming dangerous; not just to him, but to Albion’s general populace. The fools. If they only knew what he was fighting…but, _no_. That would change nothing. Logan clenched his fists, repressing his roiling frustrations, and turned to leave his study. It was time to gather his guard.

“It’s strange, isn’t it?” a voice from across the room wondered aloud. “I thought Albion would look prettier with Bowerstone in ashes, but it’s not pretty at _all_.”

Logan froze, his pupils dilating as his breath caught in his throat. His heart beat faster in surprise and refused to quickly calm when he realised who it was. Of course _she_ would pick _now_ to see him. After all, this was the beginning of a crisis and she was the only one who would dare sneak up on him. Logan grit his teeth and turned to face his guest. “Rowan… _you_ are _late_.”

“Woman’s prerogative,” she quipped in reply, giving him an innocent grin, though there was a devious mischief in her eyes. Rowan hadn’t parted from the window sill she’d crept in through—probably so she could get out faster—and her partner in crime was curled up in her lap, purring. (It really wasn’t very odd that Geoffrey purred so much; after all, it was his right as a very large, very spoiled, and very _fluffy_ cat.) She moved to sit more comfortably and Geoffrey head-butted her hand to get her to scratch his ears.

Something about Rowan unsettled him. Maybe it was the fact that she looked fifteen, but was really older than that by about a decade. Maybe it was that her hair was dyed in such a way that it currently resembled a watermelon. Or, just maybe, it was that she had trained a _cat_ to help her steal things. Whatever the reason may have been, Logan didn’t know. In fact, most days, he didn’t care, either. Rowan had a job to do, a job she did rather well, and all that mattered was that she completed it. That, as it happened, was the only reason he tolerated that Rowan was also giving information to both Page and Reaver, as well.

“Why was I never forewarned about…this _incident_?”

“Because I didn’t know they had planned anything, maybe? Page must have been concerned about leaks, or she would have told me. Too bad for you, but not so bad for the Resistance. Or Reaver,” Rowan added after a brief pause. “I’m sure his company will be paid handsomely for all the repair work people will need done.”

“Rowan….”

“Not that Reaver would ever work with Page, so that’s definitely not what I’m trying to say. Skorm would blow Avo before _that_ happened. But it’s still interesting.”

Logan had come to realise that Rowan had the slightly annoying tendency to ramble senselessly for hours on end about nothing at all. If she wasn’t so good at procuring items, he wouldn’t have bothered dealing with her. Then again, if she wasn’t so good, she wouldn’t have a job. She’d be locked up tight in Ravenscar Keep with Albion’s other criminals. However, both Rowan and Logan had something the other wanted. Rowan had information, and Logan…well, he had her _name_. Most of the people she’d worked so hard to steal from were of the nobility and very few of those people would have ever connected little Halden Rowena Mulch with their suddenly empty coffers. All Logan had to do was slip the name to the wrong person and Rowan’s career, and life, would be over. But he didn’t want to have to resort to such measures if she was going to continue to work out so well.

“I don’t pay you for your opinion,” Logan finally snapped, unable to keep quiet any longer.

Rowan raised an eyebrow at him almost challengingly, reminding him vaguely of his sister. “Oh, you don’t _need_ to remind me, dear King. But, before you tell me to leave, there’s something you should know: a single ship left port while your guard was otherwise occupied.” Seeing that she had Logan’s full attention again, Rowan continued: “I’m fairly certain Page was on that ship. See? This wasn’t a social call.” She paused. “…So…what now?”

While Rowan had been speaking, Logan had made his way back to the window he’d previously occupied. His eyes fell on Bowerstone Industrial’s dock after a brief search and he could barely make out the shape of a couple warships that still stood proudly amongst the carnage. One of the knots in his stomach seemed to ease as an idea crept up on him. If Page was leaving the country…this presented an opportunity. Maybe he ought to send the navy after her with a parting gift….

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: the majority of OCs exist in my fics to die. Doesn't matter how much I like them. Can you progress the plot? If yes, then carry on. If no, well...is there a chance you'll eventually progress the plot/subplot? Sorry, sugar...I'll make it as good as possible. Maybe you'll show up as an important character in another fic....  
> (This is probably why no one ever asks me to write their characters into things. =( )


	16. Darkness Incarnate

_With his lips at her neck and his hands busy removing her blouse, it was hard to keep her mind focused on anything around her; just the fire searing through her body and the ever constant desire for more. He made her avaricious. It was difficult to think when the thing coursing through her veins was lust and not blood. It pounded through her skull in a greedy, insistent chant. Want, want, want, want._

_His hips shifted, all but causing him to grind against her groin. She bit back a groan as an utterly delicious wave of friction crashed through her, doing nothing to quench her desire; in an involuntary response, she raked her nails across his shoulders, revelling in the slight hiss of pain he afforded her as she ran her fingers over the quickly fading bruise on his shoulder. His lips left a searing trail of warmth as he kissed his way up her neck and she yelped in surprise when he unexpectedly, almost punishingly, nipped her ear with a touch too much force. It didn’t keep her from shivering anxiously as his lips brushed against the “wound” as he said—_

Victoria started awake, staring about the empty deck blearily. Even though she was alone, she was embarrassed for falling asleep on watch…even more so that she’d end up having such a dream while doing so. Why her mind insisted on reliving certain incidents in her dreams—she didn’t want to think about it.

With a yawn, she dragged herself to her feet to look around. This ship was much smaller than _Arachne_ had been, she decided—less beautiful and less interesting. The sea felt so much larger to her now, though; almost as though it was pressing in, anxious to swallow her. But the sea was calm and the sky was mostly clear and so Victoria was comfortable with saying there wasn’t anything to be concerned about. She wondered if she could find a spot for a short nap before Page got up to take over for her.

The thought of Page made her sigh. It wasn’t that she was unhappy to see the revolutionary, but things always seemed more complicated around Page. There was always a pressure to rush to the next mission—to hurry and make nothing but the right choice—and Victoria was still struggling to come to grips with all that had happened in the past few months. The fact that Page kept looking at her as though she were a wild animal that might bite concerned her, too. Maybe Page was expecting her to be able to recount every single thing that happened with Reaver, in detail so it could be analysed thoroughly, but Victoria was still analysing things herself. She didn’t want to tell Page anything that could get her hurt. On the same hand, a part of her didn’t want to say anything and, as odd as she felt for thinking it, take advantage of Reaver; there were just some things he did that were too personal—like the way his nightmares affected him or the way he was always writing in a little journal when he was lost in thought but not willing to speak—and the entire Resistance didn’t need to know about them. So maybe that meant she wasn’t being supportive enough to the cause, but, for once, she didn’t care. It was better for her to take her time and sort through the mental mess before even attempting to offer any information to anyone.

Stifling another yawn, she began a slow circuit of the deck, hoping the cold air would shock her awake. It wasn’t helping much and, by the time she was nearing her original position, she was still dead on her feet. Then something caught her eye: something like darkness moving to blot out the stars on the horizon. Whatever it was seemed small, though, and Victoria fumbled with her jacket’s pockets to find the spyglass she’d stashed in them. Holding it up to her eye, she realised it was actually an extremely large ship that was just very far away, moving fast. And its flags were— _Oh, no_.

Before she even really registered moving, Victoria had stuffed the spyglass back in her pocket, and had bolted towards the hatch that would lead below deck. The steamship was made for transporting small amounts of goods through local waters, not any kind of real battle, and so Victoria felt utterly justified at being afraid as she dropped down through the hatch.

“Navy!” she shouted, dashing towards the small cabins in the very back of the ship. “Royal Navy!”

“What’s going on?” Page enquired, half asleep as she poked her head out of her cabin.

On the opposite side of the hall, Walter had opened his door with a grave expression on his face.

“There’s a man of war approaching fast,” Victoria said quickly. “From its flags, I’d say it’s Albion Na—”

A colossal **_bang!_** rocked the ship and Victoria was cut off as the blast threw her into a wall. _Is that…_ mortar _fire?_

“Move!” Walter barked to both women. He tried to pull Victoria to her feet and steer her towards the hatch, even as Page darted around them and began climbing up.

Victoria thought she heard a faint whistling and, the next thing she knew, a series of explosions tore into the ship and her entire world went dark.

~ * ~

“Page?!”

Victoria’s head hurt. That was the first thing she truly registered. The next being that she was lying on something hot and uncomfortably gritty. It was also pitch black around her.

“Victoria?!”

 _Here_ , she thought, too tired and in too much pain to give the thought voice. _I’m right here_. It was about then that she realised it was so dark because she hadn’t opened her eyes yet. _Oh…I should probably do that_. She didn’t even attempt to do so, though, instead lying there to soak up the warm air around her. Maybe she could sleep….

“Page?!”

 _C’mon_ , her mind told her. _You have to go…to go…to go talk to Logan. Or…or save Ben…or something._ She didn’t want to move, though, and mumbled to herself, “Dun wanna.”

Deciding that that stunning display of intelligence was indicative that she had won the argument with herself, Victoria had every intention of lying there like some kind of log for as long as she could. And then something wet and slightly hairy brushed her ear. She heard a lot of loud snuffling and tried to push it away, but she was too disinclined to move to actually do it. Something slimy and rough went into her ear.

“ _NERO!_ ” Victoria yelped, clutching her ear as she jolted upright into a sitting position. The border collie wagged his tail enthusiastically and licked her face. She grimaced, resisting the urge to wipe her face off. The last thing she wanted was a kiss from Nero right after his tongue had been in her ear.

Victoria slowly got to her feet. They were on a beach, that was obvious enough, but she couldn’t tell if the blinding sun before her was rising or setting. Tall, jagged reddish rocks rose up behind her like massive teeth. Wreckage of their stolen ship littered the shoreline around her. _What happened?_ she wondered. _And where are we?_

“Walter?” she called, hearing him calling again from a ways down the beach.

“Victoria?” he called back, sounding relieved.

“Walter! I’m alright! Stay where you are and I’ll find you.” She hesitated and added, “You’re alright, too, aren’t you?”

As she hurried toward him, she shed her waterlogged and tattered leather coat and then her equally ruined blouse. Her stockings were no good anymore, either, but those would need to wait a moment. Jasper would _not_ be happy when he discovered how many articles of clothing she’d ruined recently.

“I’m fine,” Walter said gruffly, shrugging it off when Victoria reached him. “Nothing I can’t handle.” He added in a far more serious tone, “Page isn’t here.”

“What?”

He looked saddened as he told her: “It looks like we didn’t all make it. I only hope…” Walter trailed off, then roused himself as though realizing just what he was saying, “Well, maybe she washed up somewhere else. Yes. I’m sure that’s it.”

“I’m sure she’s fine,” Victoria agreed soothingly. She didn’t really believe Page _was_ , but she could hope. They both could.

As Walter looked around the area, she took a moment to empty her boots of seawater and pull off her shredded stockings. She reached under her sage-coloured corset cover to loosen her corset. It was hot, she felt justified. Besides, where was anybody to stop her? Walter definitely wasn’t.

“Well,” Walter announced, “It looks like the only way forward is through a rather ominous cave.”

Victoria got to her feet, blinking in surprise when her corset fell down. _Oops_. Turning her attention away from her fallen undergarment, she eyed the cave warily and followed Walter toward it. The sun, which she now realised was indeed rising, beat mercilessly down upon them, the heat doing nothing to soothe her aches. Despite her efforts, she couldn’t recall much about the previous night. She knew they had been at sea for long while, and then the royal navy had caught up with them. There had been explosions… _several_ of them…and the rest was a blur. Had she been knocked unconscious?

“Before we go any further,” her companion said to her, pulling her from her thoughts, “there’s just one thing I’d like to say: **_Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaalls!_** ”

The word echoed through the cavern and Victoria snickered. _How classy_. It was so like Walter to make light of a bad situation.

Her laughter cut short, however, as the cavern engulfed them and an odd sensation washed over her skin. It was still uncomfortably hot. Still blindingly bright, but, in the shade of the stone, it was darker than it ought to have been. She couldn’t help but be unsettled by it.

“I have a bad feeling about this place,” she muttered to Nero, who whined and ran off ahead of them. “Like we shouldn’t be here.”

Walter, whether or not he’d actually heard her, seemed to share her feelings on the matter. “So. This is what Aurora looks like.”

“So it would appear.”

“I was hoping it would be a little less…cave-y,” the older man admitted.

Victoria shrugged. She didn’t mind caves, but she still couldn’t shake the strange feeling she was getting. It reminded her of something—somewhere else she had been—but she couldn’t quite place it. And, in turn, her apprehension seemed to steal most of her voice.

Nero barked cheerfully from far up ahead, sounding both excited and eager, as though he wanted them to hurry up and catch up with him.

“Sounds like the dog’s found something. You never know, it could be a luxury inn,” he said wistfully, clearly interpreting the bark as a signal for discovering something…as Victoria herself usually did.

In this case, however, Victoria sincerely doubted it. Why would an inn be built into a cave?

Nero barked again and the pair sped up…only to have to duck to avoid a sudden swarm of bats.

“Urgh!” Victoria yelped, waving one away from her when it got too close to her face. Bats were…were…were _bats_. I.e., annoying. The little ones were cute and sometimes she wanted to pet them, but she didn’t like the big ones. They occasionally tried to take a bite out of her and were usually covered in bugs. _Ew…bugs_.

“Oh. Bats. He found _bats_.” Walter sounded cynical. “ _Well done_ , boy. Bats are _exactly_ what we need right now.”

But Nero was still barking. _He’s found something else in here._ “I don’t think it’s _just_ bats.”

They ran ahead, the passageway growing larger and darker around them. Huge pillars sprouted from the sandy ground to support a ceiling that was lost in shadow. They came to a stone railing and found themselves looking down upon an empty chamber, a circle of swirling and pulsing violet light shielding what looked like an empty void in the centre of the floor.

“Bloody hell,” Victoria said slowly. What, by the gods above and below, was _that_ all about?

“What the hopping hobbes is that?” Walter murmured, staring at the violet light.

“No idea…let’s go look at it.” He gave her a look and she gave him an innocent one in return. “I just mean…what if it’s protecting the way out or something?”

Walter nodded and led the way on. “Maybe. I’ll tell you one thing, though. We haven’t gotten this far and gotten this many people behind us to die in some forsaken hole in the middle of nowhere.”

His tone said he wouldn’t stand for it and Victoria agreed. They had come too far to die now.

They made their way around the railing and down a long set of stairs with somewhat less enthusiasm than Nero. After all, it was pretty dim and they both knew what darkness could hide. Once they were level with the violet light, they received an uncomfortable confirmation that they were not the only ones to have gotten lost there. There were remains of people, not yet skeletal, but decomposed enough to show it had been a while since their death. The bodies didn’t smell like recent deaths either. Somehow, that didn’t inspire confidence.

“Where ever we are, we’re not the only ones who got stuck in this damn place.”

Victoria nodded in agreement, her unease growing by the second. Her stomach was twisting uncomfortably and all she could manage was a weak: “Yeah.”

“Not the most encouraging sign in the world, either,” Walter admitted. “Still, they might have something useful on them. Why don’t you check that lot over there?”

As thrilling as looting dead bodies sounded, Victoria was inclined to pass. However, she knew Walter was right and so she made her way over to where he pointed. It was, quite possibly, one of the grossest things she’d ever been asked to do (excluding Benjamina’s uncompleted “Quest”, naturally—because, it didn’t matter how desperate she was to get people behind their revolution, stealing Reaver’s underwear was _never_ the answer), but, much to her surprise, she found something quite quickly. She looked through the tattered collection of old papers. There wasn’t much of interest, but then she found a note that made her stomach drop out.

“I found something,” she called. When she had Walter’s attention, she read, “‘It speaks to us still. Darkness incarnate. We know now we can never escape it.’”

Her skin crawled. _Darkness incarnate…_. The shadows in Wraithmarsh instantly came to mind and she repressed a shudder, now understanding what the cave had reminded her of _. By Avo, don’t let this be the same_. But wishing didn’t change the fact that _something_ was severely _wrong_ with the place. She wanted to _get out_.

“Well, that doesn’t sound good,” Walter murmured, pausing in his search. “Not good at all.” He looked down at the papers before him, rustled around a bit, and added in a considerably brighter voice, “Hey, I’ve found something, too! One of these poor sods kept a journal. Most of the pages have disintegrated…but you can still make out plenty of strange symbols. Everything else is just gobbledygook, anyway.”

Victoria straightened up, listening with interest as she gave Nero a quick, absent pat on the head.

Walter turned a page. “For instance, listen to this nonsense: ‘Luminous spirits of the sands, impart daybreak and gleam under a quiet moon’.” He chuckled. “What’s that supposed to m—?”

The journal exploded. Or, that’s how it looked to Victoria. Light, the same shade of violet as the barrier, burst forth from the pages and, when it finally cleared, the barrier had vanished. Victoria all but gasped in response, getting to her feet and walking over to peer over the edge and into the seemingly endless chasm before her. That was… _unexpected_. And not entirely in a good way.

“Would you look at that?” Walter laughed, clearly pleased with himself. “Can you believe _I_ did _that_?” He laughed again.

“Yeah… _super_ ,” she said dryly, realizing only a second too late that she sounded a rather lot like a certain top-hat-wearing menace she was trying desperately not to think about. That did nothing to make her feel any better.

“Um…it _does_ look somewhat _dark_ , though,” he added awkwardly as he approached the staircase. “Maybe going down isn’t the best idea.”

Victoria raised a questioning brow at him as Nero began to bark again. Yes, the stone spiral staircase did indeed look “dark”, if one could truly use such a simple term to describe the utterly tenebrous, forebodingly mysterious _hole_ before them. She didn’t see why that was a problem though. They’d been in dark caves, like the bowels of the monorail station and the catacombs under the castle, together before. They had worked well together. As long as they were careful and stuck together, they would be fine. So why did Walter look like he was close to panicking?

Nero was still barking and Walter shot him an annoyed look. “What? Why don’t you go first if you’re so tough?”

Nero yipped and started down the stairs, tail nearly between his legs. Walter sighed and rubbed at his forehead as he muttered, “Right; here we go.”

Walter and Nero were nearly out of sight already and Victoria hesitated. While she was worried for them, she didn’t like the feeling she was getting from the darkness below. However, she had the disturbing feeling that she was being watched where she was. The thought of staying there, alone, just plain creeped her out.

“Wait for me!” she called and hurried after them. And, together, they descended into the abyss.

~ * ~

“You know how I said that it looked _somewhat_ dark? Well, I’d like to amend that statement. We’re looking at utter, complete darkness.”

As Walter’s words washed over her, Victoria shivered. He was right. Before they’d mounted the _extremely_ long staircase, there had been just enough light from the outside world to see in the cavern. Now that all of that light was gone…well, Victoria was just glad she had her guild seal and so she could see the immediate area surrounding her. _As long as the guild seal is within your possession, your path with always be illuminated_ , the book—the one her father had left Jasper in the Sanctuary—had said. Well, they could certainly use a little more illumination.

She could hear the rustle of fabric, soft and light and like that of a curtain or flag, far above them. She could also hear Nero running about in the dark, though he was too far away for her to see. And, though she was getting a sensation of largeness from the area, all Victoria could clearly see was Walter beside her and the ghostly ivory of hundreds of blown out candle stubs on the floor. She would have to get much closer to check, but it looked like most of the candles still had wicks. Were they, maybe, supposed to light them?

“Nero’s coming back,” she warned, not wanting the collie to alarm Walter. “I think he’s got something in his mouth.”

He did. Nero stopped just short of them, looking playful and wagging his tail in the manner he usually did when they were playing fetch. However, despite that Nero did indeed have something in his mouth that looked oddly stick-like, they weren’t exactly playing. Strange.

“What have you got there, boy?” Walter asked him. When Nero didn’t drop it, a miniature tug-a-war commenced as Walter tried to get the thing out of the dog’s mouth. When he succeeded, he laughed, holding it up. “You little genius! Good boy.”

It wasn’t a stick, but a _torch_ Nero had found.

“ _Very_ good boy,” Victoria added, petting Nero affectionately as Walter got the torch lit. She was still on edge. Was it just her imagination or did she hear chains clanking?

The torch flared to light, and, as Walter held it up, Victoria found she couldn’t really agree with him that everything was better now. It didn’t really look like they were in a good situation. Old chains and tattered banners hung from the high ceiling. Various species of vermin scurried and scuttled away from them, moving between candle stubs in search of a shadow to hide in. The floor had probably once been ornately carved, but, as Victoria stood there, it was cracked and covered in dust, sand, and various animal droppings. Huge stone pillars, larger across than a man, had been placed at regular intervals around the hall. The air was stagnant, oppressively hot, and distinctly dead feeling. Victoria’s sense of apprehension increased.

The pair started forward, Walter holding the torch high in front and Victoria taking place behind him with her hand resting on the butt of the Dragonstomper. It was quiet. Much too quiet.

“What do you think this place is?” Walter enquired as they walked.

“I’ve no idea. It looks a bit like…” Victoria trailed off, unsure what she wanted to say. It reminded her of something out of a book.

“A temple of some sort?” Walter finished for her. “What could anyone possibly worship in here?”

 _Darkness and screams. Blood splattered, red and warm, over arcane carvings. That warmth was an affront. The most vile…the most treacherous…._ Victoria shook her head to clear the sudden barrage of mental images. It had seemed so… _real_. Almost painful in their clarity. She vaguely wondered if she were going mad. “I’m not sure I _want_ to know.”

They exited the room, using the torch to burn away a veil of spider webs covering the archway before them, and came out into a far larger chamber. Victoria simply stared. It looked big enough to fit a large portion of Bowerstone Castle within. The ludicrously high ceiling was cut with intricately detailed skylights that bathed the middle section of the room in light. Birds and bats fluttered around the holes above them. Tiled balconies lined the edges of the chamber, their exotic balustrades almost sinuous in the manner they’d been carved. The stone walls, too, had strange glyphs and patterns carved into them in the few spaces where sunlight hit them. She couldn’t see the far side of the chamber, but, despite the strangeness of the place, it was oddly… _pretty_ , in the most peculiar manner possible.

“Well, it looks like we won’t be going any further this way,” Walter told her.

Victoria looked down from the ceiling to find that they stood on a small platform. A space in the railing before them showed that, if they’d kept walking, they would have fallen into a dark void. Victoria shivered. _Not a good way to die_.

“It looks like a bridge,” Walter said, stepping to the edge of the platform. “Is that the mechanism for it on the other side?”

Victoria squinted as she looked closer. “I think so.”

“Isn’t that handy? One of us will have to try to find a way across to use it.”

“I’ll do it. Nero, you stay here.”

The left path was barred with dusty rubble. Victoria felt a stab of horror upon realizing that amongst the debris and ever-present candle stubs were the blackened bones of those long dead. She hastily turned to the unblocked path to her right. Walking out of the torchlight was nerve-wracking, but she didn’t ask to take the torch. Walter needed it more than she did. The path had caved in after a point and she carefully jumped down.

“Watch your step. We’ve no idea how stable this place is,” Walter called.

Victoria nodded, then added when she realised he couldn’t see her, “I will.”

This pathway, she noted was covered in those shattered, carefully painted tiles and, since it _had_ fallen, was severely slanted. She glanced at the void to her left as she walked through shafts of morning sunlight, and saw strange flickers of violet light within. _This place is so strange_. She came to a flight of stairs and looked around sharply when she thought she heard a whisper. _Just your ears playing tricks on you. Pay it no heed._ Feeling even less comfortable than before, she made her way to the lever.

“Alright. I’ve found it,” she called.

“Good, but be careful,” was Walter’s reply. “That thing’s probably going to be pretty stiff. We don’t need to make any more noise than we have to.”

“ _Right_ ,” Victoria muttered, stepping up to it. A sliver of ice slid down her spine when she realised there was a skeleton beside it, lying there as if it were reaching for the lever. _Not a good sign_.

She pulled the lever. It clanged loudly as some mechanism fell into place. Everything suddenly began to shake and rumble as though the earth was coming to life. It was worse than an earthquake. Huge chunks of stone fell from the ceiling and into the void, never making a sound to say they had landed. The bridge quickly moved across the gap, sliding into place with a headache-worthy bang. _So much for not making any noise_. It had been so loud she wouldn’t have been surprised if _Logan_ , all the way back in Bowerstone, had heard it.

Nero bolted to her side immediately, tail between his legs. She petted him reassuringly, wondering what had spooked him so quickly. Was he picking up on something she and Walter couldn’t see?

“Yes,” Walter said with a mix of sarcasm and apprehension as he neared her. “And as quiet and stealthy as mice, the adventurers forged ahead.”

When he reached her, Victoria intended to apologize about how loud the lever had been, only to stop as an inhuman screech rent the air.

“What was that?” Victoria whispered, hand on her pilfered gun. Nero pressed his body against her legs, shaking with fear.

Walter slowly shook his head. “I _know_ I have the tendency to be _slightly_ paranoid…but did that sound like something _friendly_ to you?”

“Not in the slightest.”

He looked around for a moment, gesturing her to follow him, and they bolted up the steps together. However, they soon found out that their only way out was…blocked.

“Now, where have we seen this before?” Walter asked her sarcastically, as he stared at the glowing violet barrier.

Victoria stared at the light, wondering if it was just her imagination that it seemed to throb in time with her pulse. “How are we—?”

“Stand back,” he instructed. “Walter the Scholar will deal with this.” When the Princess raised a brow at him, he added, “With an increasing sense of trepidation, I admit.”

Trying not to smile, Victoria stepped obligingly to the side to let “Walter the Scholar” try his hand at it.

Walter cleared his throat and said in a commanding voice, “Luminous spirits of the sands, inhale the restless gloaming.”

“I don’t think that was—”

The barrier vanished.

“Never mind, then,” Victoria finished.

“What can I say?” he said in reply to the bemused expression on the Princess’s face. “I have a knack for gibberish.”

“Indeed. And _how_ long, _exactly_ , have you been a scholar, Walter?” Victoria teased as they passed through the arch.

“For—”

The barrier reappeared behind them, emitting a faint violet glow. They both stared, unnerved and beginning to grow fearful.

“Do—do you ever get the feeling somebody’s playing games with us?” he asked, nervousness in his words.

“ _All_ the time,” Victoria admitted, voice small. “And with increasing acuteness, as of lately.”

“Let’s just be thankful and get through this place as quickly as we can.”

The Princess couldn’t have said it better herself…except that she was beginning to wonder if it might have been better had they never entered the temple in the first place.

They walked hurriedly through chamber after chamber, feeling as though they were never getting anywhere. The darkness pressed in around them, crowding them. Victoria’s skin seemed to prickle with awareness.

She and Walter had nearly exited another room when a harsh voice spoke out, echoing from everywhere and nowhere, “ _The light you bring will die. The light inside you will die. All that you are will_ die.”

The darkness coalesced around them; so many eyes stared maliciously at them from the gloom, glowing faintly red with malicious intent. Walter suddenly stopped asking the speaker to show themselves.

Victoria’s heart seemed to stop. “By the gods….”

“This isn’t good,” Walter agreed.

The voice laughed softly at them. “ _The children are here to play_.”

Figures stepped out of the darkness, black and humanoid with little wings and weapons. Shadows. Similar to those in Wraithmarsh. Every repressed feeling of fear Victoria had had since then seemed to return to her, bubbling just below the surface. The shadows had them surrounded and the closer they got, the more Walter tried to ward them away.

_Don’t be afraid. Don’t be afraid. Don’t be afraid._

Victoria summoned her Will, fire blooming in her palms, and she threw herself at them. The shadows, luckily, were fairly weak, a single blow destroying them, but there were _so many_. Between the voice’s taunting and all the shadows, she began to lose track of everything.

“ _Death beats its wings for you_.”

Victoria shook her head, hating the way the voice’s words echoed in her mind like water rippling through a pond. The movement seemed to grant her enough clarity to fight off whatever haze the voice was forcing over her mind, and she noticed something interesting.

“Walter. Walter, stop!” she shouted, catching his arm. When she had his attention, she added, “They’re retreating.”

And so the shadows were. Slowly, predatorily, they backed away to be absorbed into the preternatural darkness around them.

“ _You are_ tainted,” the voice taunted. “ _The stain shall_ never _wash out. The sun will_ never _shine upon you again. Tainted…broken…little…toys…._ ”

The voice slowly faded, leaving them standing there. Victoria suddenly realised she was shaking. All she could think about was how they needed to get out of there as fast as possible. Walter, on the other hand, was nothing short of an absolute train wreck.

“It’s alright. We’re alright. We just have to keep going. We’re alright,” he rambled, leading them on.

Victoria felt heartbroken and helpless as he kept mumbling that they were alright. She stayed silent, not knowing how she should react. How did you comfort someone who was inconsolable? She wanted to hug him, to find some way to soothe him and remind him that they were perfectly fine. Instead, she followed him up another flight or so of stairs, paying attention to nothing but Walter. He jumped at everything from bats to rodents to Nero’s occasional whining, muttering to himself that he needed to keep calm all the while.

She noticed more candles and more skeletons along the path as they went and she began to wonder what exactly had happened there. And what was the deal with that voice? Where had it come from? Why was it interested in them? And where was the way out?!

It was as they passed several metallic-looking statues shaped like giant birds and angels that Walter said to her, “Damn that book and whoever wrote it! Why didn’t they tell us what was down here?”

“I don’t know.”

It occurred to Victoria that Walter hadn’t actually heard her when he scoffed, “‘Darkness incarnate.’ How were we supposed to know what that meant?”

 _I don’t know_ , Victoria thought again. She wondered the same thing. Maybe they had meant to lead them into a trap? Or…maybe had just been too afraid to give their fear words? Though, admittedly, how hard was it to write, “don’t go down the stairs or you will die”?

“Wait,” Walter told her. “I-I think I feel a breeze. We must be nearing an exit. Can’t you feel it?”

He bolted ahead of her, leaving Victoria and Nero to hurry to give chase.

“I don’t feel anything!” she shouted. “ _Walter!_ ”

She reached him as he neared an arch.

Walter didn’t look so good. “There’s that sound again. It’s almost like….”

An immense burst of freezing air blasted over them. The torch went out, plunging them into darkness. Victoria hadn’t heard the sound Walter had, but, when Walter began panicking about something being behind them, she used her Will to help him light the torch once more.

Walter stood and they both turned…only to come face-to-face with a creature that seemed to have crawled out of someone’s nightmares. It had three heads and enormous fangs, tiny arms, and an elongated, though hunched over and seemingly frail, body, and sickeningly pale skin. It was as though something from the bottom of a cave had mutated. Victoria screamed. Walter gasped and tried to hit it with the torch.

The thing vanished as though it had never been there.

“Balls,” Walter breathed. “We have to get out of here. We have to—have to—”

“Walter!” Victoria said sharply, grabbing hold of him and all-but shaking him. “ _Walter_ , listen to me. We’re going to be fine. We’re going to get out of here. We _need_ to stay calm.”

She didn’t think Walter was paying any attention to her, though, and it wasn’t too much of a surprise when they were attacked shortly afterwards.

“ _We are coming. We will devour your Kingdom_.” The creature’s voice echoed everywhere. “ _There will be no bargains. There will be only darkness. The children command it!_ ”

Shadows rushed at them and, this time, Victoria was ready for them. She swung her hammer mercilessly, dissolving the shadows with every blow. She was beginning to master her fear, but not her temper. _Where are they all coming from?!_

She caught sight of Walter fighting off shadows before she loosed a large ball of fire on her attackers. It exploded with a loud bang that sent chunks of flaming stone raining down on them. _Oops_.

“ _You will turn to moss and dust, and we will take the darkness into the world_ ,” the voice hissed.

“Doesn’t that _thing_ ever shut up?!” Victoria snapped to no one in particular, irritated.

The shadows were beginning to thin due to the combination of their desperate and brutal fighting skills. When the last of the shadows vanished, Victoria was slightly relieved. Maybe now it would _finally_ be over.

It wasn’t.

“ _Did the blind seer not tell you about us?_ ”

Victoria’s heart seemed to stop. _Blind seer?_ _What does that_ thing _know about Theresa?_

The voice continued to mock them. “ _Did she not warn you?_ ”

It laughed at them, it’s voice echoing through their minds and twisting their perceptions. Walter doubled over, clutching at his head with his free hand as though the voice was physically painful. But Walter had had enough.

“ ** _Quiet!_** ” he yelled as he launched the torch at where the creature had been lurking.

The thing screamed as it burned, its robes catching fire quickly. It curled in on itself like a dying bug. Victoria stared, wide-eyed, at Walter. _Talk about a great recovery._

As the creature’s body vanished, Walter breathed a sigh of relief. “It’s gone. The bastard’s dead and gone. And _we_ are getting out of here.”

As they left the room, Victoria nervously began, “Walter…are-are you…?”

She trailed off as they went up yet more stairs. It wasn’t easy to know what to say, which was odd because she usually had _something_ to say. She was too worried now, though; too worried and too scared. Her confidence at their mission was fading faster by the second. Walter was a mess, Page was missing, and she…well, if it weren’t for Nero and Walter she might have considered curling into a little ball and crying. How were they going to get out of this?

And what did Theresa have to do with anything?

“I’m sorry,” Walter said quietly after they had been walking for some time. “I lost my head back there, I know. I’ve never liked dark caves, but this….” He trailed off as if the words might hurt him.

“You don’t need to apologize, Walter,” she said kindly, finally beginning to understand. She could think of a few situations where she might panic as he had. _But why did you never tell me?_

Walter, however, seemed driven by the need to make sure she understood. “No, it’s-it’s as if someone took my worst nightmare and made it real.” He seemed to relax and, as if in revelation, added, “But it’s gone now. It’s gone, and we’re going to be fine.”

“We will.”

Nero barked as if to agree and Victoria gestured for him to be silent.

As they walked, Victoria began to notice something vaguely disturbing along the sides of the walkways. There were puddles. Puddles of blackness that moved like a viscous liquid, but, instead of seeping along the floor like liquid was supposed to, it was dripping _upwards_. Victoria had the unsettling feeling of being turned on her head. _Why do I have the feeling that this isn’t over yet?_ Not that she would tell Walter she felt that way, especially not now that he seemed to be doing a bit better.

In time, they came to a ledge. Victoria had a bad feeling about the room it over-looked. Sunlight pouring in through cracks in the roof showed that, though sandy, it had fountains and rivers of that black stuff within. Victoria didn’t want to know what would happen when she touched it. _Are you a Hero or not, girl!? Get moving!_

Walter, however, was looking for another way through. There wasn’t one. “Looks like the only way is down. _Goody_.” He took a deep, slightly shaky breath. “Alright.”

“Alright,” Victoria murmured and prepared to jump.

“Wait,” Walter suddenly said before she could.

He sounded unnerved and she turned to look at him with concern. “Walter? Are you—do you want me to wait for you to jump?”

“I—no,” he said, sounding slightly stronger. “I’ll need a moment to prepare myself, but I—don’t let that stop you.”

Victoria nodded and took a deep breath, not wanting to leave Walter alone. She knew that staying with him was the right thing to do; morally, anyway. However, she also knew how it felt to have people always standing over her, never trusting she could take care of herself. Walter was older than she was and he was a soldier. He could fight and take care of himself. A single lapse in behaviour, an emotional breakdown brought on by pure fear, was not the right cause for her to start acting like he was an errant child in need of watching. If she couldn’t prove she trusted him with himself, how could _he_ trust himself? How could he trust her? She jumped.

The sand was loose and she sank a couple inches in it. The fall wasn’t as bad as it had seemed, though, and she easily caught Nero when he too jumped down.

“Are you alright down there?” Walter called.

“Yes,” she replied as she set her dog down. “It isn’t too far down.”

She heard him moving around a moment before he replied, “Right, here I come then. Three…two…one….”

Victoria heard movement once more, and then Walter screamed. Her blood went cold; threaded through that scream had been a malicious chuckle.

“Walter?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "So I read again that hideous chapter, and shuddered doubly because it was indeed not new to me. I had seen it before,  
> let footprints tell what they might; and where it was I had seen it were best forgotten. There was no one—in waking  
> hours—who could remind me of it; but my dreams are filled with terror, because of phrases I dare not quote. I dare  
> only quote one paragraph, put into such English as I can make from the awkward Low Latin.
> 
> 'The nethermost caverns,' wrote the mad Arab, 'are not for the fathoming of eyes that see; for their marvels are strange  
> and terrific. Cursed the ground where dead thoughts live new and oddly bodied, and evil the mind that is held by no head.  
> Wisely did Ibn Schacabao say, that happy is the tomb where no wizard hath lain, and happy the town at night whose wizards  
> are all ashes. For it is of old rumor that the soul of the devil-brought hastes not from his charnel clay, but fats and  
> instructs the very worm that gnaws; till out of the corruption horrid life springs, and the dull scavangers of earth wax crafty  
> to vex it and swell monsterous to plague it. Great holes secretly are digged where earth's pores ought to suffice,  
> and things have learnt to walk that ought to crawl.'"  
> ~HP Lovecraft (The Festival)


	17. Sancta Sanctorum

When looking back at how the present circumstances came to be, Jasper never failed to be astonished. It was hard to believe that nearly a year ago he was simply “Jasper, the Princess’s butler”, and now he was in charge of a magical dwelling and helping with a revolution. Not even with the old Hero King had he been a part of such madness. Then again, the lad—for, despite how close their ages were, Sparrow would always be a lad to him—had been quite fond of peace and had never let situations escalate to such a level.

Jasper hummed pleasantly to himself as he set about his work. Cobwebs were attempting to creep up on him in the corners of the Sanctuary and Nero’s blankets needed freshening before he could turn in for the night. He was saving the washing for when he woke, though; it was a nuisance enough without attempting it while exhausted.

Fastidiously, he switched Nero’s old blankets with a fresh one and Jasper tucked the corners in under the basket’s pillow. Victoria had tried to talk him out of it once, claiming that it was unneeded work and that Nero didn’t care if his blankets were neat or not. Jasper knew better. If he left the blankets messy, Nero couldn’t burrow properly and, thusly, it was far better to fix them beforehand than to assist the dog during.

However, to say Jasper’s mind was empty while he busied himself with cleaning and the like would be a lie. No; in fact, his mind was rather full. Most of the time, he worried about Logan and Victoria and if both children would ever reconcile before one of them—or both—ended up dead. He thought about Sir Walter who, at his age, had no business engaging in battles. And, above all, he found solace in memories of dear Sparrow and Valerie.

Poor, poor Val; she had been so sweet and warm when Sparrow had first introduced her to his young butler and Sir Walter (though, at that time, Sir Walter had yet to receive his title). Val’s warmth had faded as quickly as summer into the fall as she hardened herself to the world. Jasper remembered spending many long nights comforting the young Queen. Her friends from her gypsy home had abandoned her and the nobility had shunned her for her low birth and had spread insalubrious rumours. Val hadn’t made many friends amongst Sparrow’s companions, either. Though the scholarly Master Garth had held her in quiet tolerance, Miss Hannah had barely spoken to her. And, as for Val’s relationship with Reaver, well…Jasper was sure that rabid wolves got on better than they did. Sparrow had always said that Reaver’s brand of humour didn’t agree with Val, but Jasper had always secretly speculated that Val and Reaver were both too possessive to tolerate sharing the Hero King.

Jasper paused mid-wiping the gauzy wisps of spider web from one of the Sanctuary’s statues.

He remembered Sparrow at the end. How the laughter and life had seemed to fade from his friend until he was pale and drawn. He remembered how Sparrow had abruptly returned from a quest one day, only to fall severely ill that very night. He had died three days later from said illness without much warning. And, above all, Jasper remembered how, in the span of only a week, the entire family had changed: Val becoming frail and bitter, Logan changing from a quietly thoughtful boy to a guarded and cold young man, and Victoria’s overwhelming sweetness and affection turning to fire and a headstrong lack of regard.

Jasper’s cleaning rag slipped from his fingers and his throat seemed to close with repressed emotion. Looking back at all his memories, at all the people he’d lost, he couldn’t remember a worse feeling from being at a funeral—he couldn’t even imagine such a terrible feeling at the thought of Logan or Victoria, or even Sir Walter, dying! Though, he had a _very_ hard time imagining Sir Walter being… _gone_.

Eyes burning slightly with unshed tears, the elderly butler roused himself from his morbid thoughts with the thought that those closest to him weren’t dead yet and that he would be utterly useless should Victoria call for assistance. _Yes, yes,_ very well; _a nap_ would _be very refreshing_.

It was easy to forget his troubles as he pottered about, putting away his cleaning supplies and searching for a warming pan in the treasury. Jasper recalled Victoria finding a rather fine one in a chest quite a while ago….

There was just one problem: once he’d found the pan and had re-entered to Sanctuary’s main chamber, he was no longer alone.

In a darkened portion of the chamber, a figure stood perfectly still. Whomever it was had their back to him and had failed to notice his entrance for the time being. Jasper could make out nothing about them.

Feeling oddly wary, Jasper adjusted his grip on the warming pan and, with more calm than he felt, called, “Excuse me, sir or madam; might I be of assistance?”

True, the person was trespassing—if one could call unexpectedly arriving in a magical dwelling in a different dimension trespassing—but it would certainly do to hurry them on their way before the Princess returned.

In response, the figure turned toward him to stare with glowing red eyes.

“ _Sir_ , I am afraid you are in a place you do not belong. I must ask you to leave at once,” Jasper told the figure, his voice strong and authoritative despite the fact that his skin was crawling.

The shadowy figure tilted his head and, instead of leaving as asked, launched itself at the elderly butler. And, acting on some impulse he didn’t know he possessed, Jasper raised the warming pan and smashed it into the creature’s head. The shadow stumbled back, clutching at its head, and Jasper whacked at it again and again before it had a chance to draw its spectral sword.

The shadow finally drew its weapon, and, letting out an inhuman shriek of rage, threw himself at the elderly man. Jasper responded in kind, swinging the warming pan into the shadow’s stomach before bashing the creature over the head.

After a second, the shadow wobbled drunkenly before collapsing to the tiled floor. Shaking slightly, Jasper dropped the ruined warming pan. He wished he could understand how and what had just happened. How could anything get into the Sanctuary without Victoria or his admission? Jasper didn’t get to think on the issue long, though. As he watched, the shadow exploded into a wave of black gunk and horror slid down Jasper’s spine. _I_ just _cleaned those floors…._

Jasper’s attention was drawn from his despair as the gunk began to bubble and slink across the room. It didn’t bode well for him. As he inched toward the armoury for his seldom-used shotgun, he had the feeling it was going to be a long day.

~ * ~

“ _Walter?_ ” Victoria called again, though it came out as a sort of pathetic, half-strangled mewl.

“ _You let him die_ ,” that voice, the one of the being they’d thought Walter had killed, told her. Its voice was a loving caress full of malicious intent, as though it were talking to a favoured child that it sought to murder. “ _You_ let _us take him_.”

The words struck her and she stumbled back as if to get away from them. “ _No…._ ”

“ _But you are_ glad _, are you not? You wished him pain. You wished him undone. Unthreaded._ Unliving _._ ”

“No!”

She ran. She didn’t know _where_ she was running _to_ , just that she hoped it was to Walter, because, if she could find him, things would be alright. He would be okay. And, if he wasn’t, she would be able to help him. She would _not_ let him die; not like Elliot, not like poor Gibson. Not like her parents. There was no sacrifice she wouldn’t make to save him. He was _not_ going to die for her mission.

“ _He would have done anything for you, and now he screams alone!_ ”

_Don’t listen to him. He just wants to demoralize you. Don’t listen._

There were shadows now, crawling out of the black liquid. She didn’t stop to fight them. Instead, she kept running, dodging any that got too close to her. Her lungs and muscles burned, but Nero was following her and, somehow, she could just _feel_ that Walter was somewhere up ahead.

“ _A great wave of darkness will cover your land. They will come for your King. Who then would sit upon the throne of Albion?_ ”

“Don’t you dare talk about my brother!” she shouted, fuming as she shot some shadows from her path.

“ _But you, too, wish for the black void…you tire of your travels, your burdens, the cries of the helpless, the cries of your_ dead _._ ”

Victoria had just run through an arch, a jet of blackness half covering it leaving her with a cold and hollow feeling, when something grabbed her foot. With a sharp tug, it sent her falling, hard, to the ground.

“ _You too will be swallowed._ ”

She clawed at the ground as it dragged her back toward the blackness. _No! No! I am_ not _going into that!_ Looking toward her feet, she saw it was a shadow, but, no matter how hard she kicked at it, it wouldn’t let her go.

“ _Give in to the Darkness_.”

Anger and fear brought about a strange calm. She rolled onto her back…and summoned her Will. She put everything into it; every ounce of disappointment in Logan, every bit of worry for Ben and frustration with Page. Every feeling of care for Jasper and affection for Walter. Every conflicted feeling Reaver had ever given her. And every good memory of her father. They all fuelled the fire in her hands. The spell released. Mammoth waves of fire rolled through the hall, and, when they died down, there wasn’t a single shadow around her.

“ _You’ve brought hurt!_ ” the creature shrieked as if her spell had wounded it as well. “ _The children are angry!_ ”

Victoria stood up and dusted herself off as she, with clinical coldness, said, “I _hate_ to break it to you, but the ‘ _children_ ’ needed to _die_.”

She walked onwards, unhindered. She couldn’t help but wonder if she was ever going to find Walter or a way out. _Don’t think like that. It_ wants _you to give up_. There was a light ahead, soft and violet, and Victoria used that as motivation. Maybe she’d find another barrier she had to make up phrases for and maybe it would lead her to something helpful.

“ _He bleeds light and fades away. You should see it. It’s a beautiful sight_.”

She didn’t even have to tell herself to ignore the words. Her heart stopped, though, when she entered the next room. There was a figure kneeling at the far end of the hall. It looked like—

“Walter!” she yelped. There was a ledge before her and she leapt off it. She landed poorly and fell into a pile of sand, only to roll off yet another ledge. Side throbbing at the impact, it still didn’t take very much effort for her to pull herself to her feet and to run to Walter. She had to make sure he was alright.

 _Oh, by Avo and the Light_. Walter was suspended in the black liquid, groaning softly. The blackness trailed over his body in dark veins and it was obvious that it was causing him great pain. Victoria struggled to keep herself calm. _Focus. Just help Walter. Don’t panic_.

Low snarling behind her turned her from Walter to glare at the creature, who vanished before she could attack it.

“ _Ah, the eyes are gone forever_.”

The words made her shiver.

The shadows came again and Victoria didn’t have a thought but to defend Walter. She swung and swung for what seemed like an eternity. The creature taunted her with everything she didn’t want to hear the entire time. Weariness tugged at her, but stubbornness kept her on her feet. She _would not_ let Walter die and she _would not_ let this… _thing_ be her end. But this time, when the shadows left, she couldn’t help it: she dropped her hammer. Her arms were too tired to hold it any longer. _Please let it be over now_.

There was a pool of blackness in the centre of the room. Slowly, ominously, it grew and bubbled.

“ _The children hide in their shells_.”

The pool bubbled faster, emitting violet wisps that entered into the bird-like statues lining the room. Their eyes glowed and the statues began to move slowly and unnaturally; they didn’t look so stone-like any more. _Oh—_

“ _They have bodies now! Bodies that can tear you asunder!_ ”

“ _Shit_.”

The creature’s minions, emanating all things foul and perverse and _wrong_ , swarmed to her. They were faster than the shadows; stronger, too. Their “bodies” were stronger, as well. But their weak spots, once found, were surprisingly easy to exploit.

Sluggishly, she drew her knives, dodging the claws that slashed for her neck. Her knives had little effect on them, however, and it was purely by accident that she managed to destroy the first one.

Two more came at her, their claws slashing as the other statues’ body whirled around. There was no way she could fight them without getting hurt. Victoria dove out of the way, her knives sinking into the body of another statue as she crashed into it. They tumbled to the floor where the statue was smashed into pieces. It didn’t move again. _That’s it! I just need to break them!_

“ _What happens to this piece of flesh when darkness touches its soul?_ ”

She didn’t care if the creature meant her or Walter; Victoria didn’t want to find out. Her heart pounded in her ears and she mentally berated herself to keep her anger—and, therefore, her will to survive—stronger than her exhaustion.

One of the statues tried to sneak up behind her and she severed its head from its body before kicking it onto the ground. The body shattered to pieces and she engaged two of its fellows. One prepared to launch some sort of weapon at her as the other began to spin, giving Victoria an idea. She avoided the boomerang-like object launched at her and, crouching low, tackled the statue’s legs. Pushing it as hard as she could, the statue teetered and fell into the spinning one and was smashed to bits.

“ _Watch us_ fly _into your heart,_ ” the creature’s voice hissed with malicious joy as a puddle of blackness began to bubble at Victoria’s feet.

The Princess dove out of the way just in time. One of the creature’s minions, however, wasn’t so lucky. The puddle exploded violently; a flock of black, spectral birds bursting straight up to attack anything in their way. The statue was obliterated. She slowly let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding. _Note to self: stay even_ further _away from that sludge stuff_.

Pain ripped through her chest and side. One of the statues had struck home, slicing across her ribs. Blood bloomed red through her, now tattered, undershirt. But Victoria didn’t have the time to worry about if the cuts were deep or not as she focused on dismantling her attacker. 

Two more statues and a _really_ bad knock to the head later, the darkness retracted from Walter. He fell to his knees, panting and groaning. Victoria ran to him, Nero already by Walter’s side, but something stopped her before she could reach him.

“ _The dark guardian will protect us!_ ” the voice snarled.

Victoria slowly turned. The puddles of darkness had retracted and slid over to one of the angel-like statues. The dark liquid seemed to be sucked into it, like water with a sponge.

“ _And all that is light and flesh shall die._ ”

The angel’s eyes glowed with an evil light, and slowly, jerkily, it began to move.

 _Is there_ any _trick this thing can’t pull off?_ It was growing unsettling, this thing’s abilities. She’d never heard of statues coming to life before. And she’d never heard of any sorcery that could accomplish it.

“ _Our protector…our sentinel, our engine in the darkness_ ….”

If the angel being far larger and slower than she was had _ever_ seemed an advantage to her, it turned out…it wasn’t. It was extremely powerful and extremely tough. Strikes from her knives left barely a scratch on it. Spells either seemed to have no effect or ricocheted off its form. Her attacks simply glanced off it like pebbles being thrown against a building. Its attacks _against_ her, however, were a different story entirely. If she got too close, it cast her back with a burst of bright violet light. If she stayed too far back, it sent a wave of energy tearing through the floor at her. If she stayed still too long, a pool of black liquid would appear beneath her with more columns of attacking phantom birds. It was a no-win situation.

And Victoria was exhausted. No amount of berating or encouraging herself could change that.

“ _The dark guardian will protect the children, always_.”

After being knocked to the ground what felt like the hundredth time, Victoria was trying not to panic. _It’s just a statue. Just like all the others_ , she told herself. Still on the floor, she inched backwards from the angel. Her hand hit something hard: her hammer. _If the others didn’t like being smashed, maybe I should try smashing this one_.

“ _Are you thinking about your family? How you will never see them again?_ ”

“ _Shut up!_ ” Victoria shouted, snatching up her hammer and bounding forward to try and hit the angel in the head.

It blocked. Victoria struggled, throwing herself behind it as she tried to use her hammer to force the angel to drop its guard. It wouldn’t, but it couldn’t attack while it used its staff to protect itself. Too angry to take much more, she drew the Dragonstomper from her holster and shot it in the face several times. _Block this_. Blinded, and seemingly in pain, the angel stumbled back. Victoria threw all her weight into the swing as she swung her hammer and struck the statue in the chest.

It fell to the floor in pieces.

“ _This land is_ ours _. Darkness shall spread across the world_ ,” the voice hissed at her, fading.

She ignored it, and, when it became apparent no more enemies were forthcoming, she raced over to Walter.

“Walter? Walter, are you alright?”

“I—I can’t see,” Walter groaned, and, with growing panic, added, “That thing…it blinded me. _I can’t see!_ ”

Victoria helped him up, frowning when she saw his eyes were covered by blackness. She took his hand. “It’s okay, Walter. I’m here. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

A barrier Victoria had barely noticed at the side of the hall had fallen away and she led Walter toward it. Once past the arch, she could see another far off arch through which blessedly blinding sunlight was streaming in. Victoria’s spirits should have lifted with the breeze coming through the hall to ruffle their hair, but it didn’t make her feel much better. In fact, it made her feel somewhat worse.

Walter wasn’t walking well and he grew frightened every time the still-hidden creature made a noise. Victoria continuously had to calm him and tell him that it was only the wind. The few minutes that it took to walk down that hall felt like an eternity.

And then they were out. Out and into an oppressive heat and gloriously bright light that felt so close to paradise after the temple’s gloom.

“Are we out? Did we get away?” Walter asked when Victoria stopped to bask in the light.

“Yes,” she replied, resuming leading them across sand-covered stones. Her skin felt tight and overly warm, but she welcomed it after the cold nothingness of the temple. “We’re safe now.” _I think_.

“What can you see?”

“Sand; a desert. There’s some ruins straight ahead, and…some sort of enormous statue far in the distance.”

“I can feel the heat of the sand,” Walter said as Victoria carefully led him up a flight of stairs. “But whatever that thing did to me…it’s like it sucked all the light out from inside of me. I still can’t see anything.”

“It’s alright,” she told him. “I won’t let go of you, and we’ll find a way to make you better.” _We have to, because—because I couldn’t do this without you. Because no one should die for my mistakes. Because I’m trying to change._

_Because you’re the closest thing I have to a father._

She led him up more sand. Her adrenalin was beginning to fade from her body and she was half-glad that there wasn’t anywhere to sit down; if she sat, she didn’t think she would be getting up any time soon.

“Careful, Walter. There’s more steps ahead.”

“Okay. Alright,” he murmured compliantly.

She could tell that he was afraid. That he was unsure if they really were safe. Victoria was equally unsure, but she’d be damned if she told him so. After all, aside from a few cuts—and Walter’s blindness—they were fine. Nero was running about ahead of them, clearly happy to be out in the warm sunlight. Victoria could lead Walter ahead as long as need be. They were _fine_.

When they reached the top of the stairs, however, Victoria felt her heart break. _We’re fucked_. The desert looked unending; an ocean of sand dunes higher than she was tall and the bands of heat shimmering between them said it would be hotter down there than where they were. Just visible on the horizon was the mammoth statue of a woman in prayer, carved from deep red stone. There was nothing else. _It goes on forever. We’re going to die out here_. She quickly told herself to stop thinking like that.

“We’re going down now,” she said softly.

She began to lead him down the steps when Walter stopped her and said, “I’m not sure how far I can go. Are there no signs of civilization?”

“I’m…not sure,” Victoria admitted. “There’s just that statue in the distance.” _And a rather lot of rocks and sand._

Walter coughed a moment before he asked the dreaded question: “How far?”

“A—a few hours, at most,” she replied, going with the optimistic choice. She tried to take his hand again. “Let’s go.”

“No. I—I can’t do this.”

“Yes, you _can_. I _know_ you can. Come on.”

“I’m too weak. You should just leave me here.”

“That’s bollocks and you know it is.”

“Listen to me,” Walter said sharply and imploringly. “I can’t see. I can hardly stand. I’ll slow you down, or worse: I’ll get you killed. What you’re doing is too important to waste on an old sod like me. Go on without me. I’m dead weight now.”

“And _you_ listen to _me_ ,” Victoria shot back determinedly, “if _you_ stay here, _I’m_ going to stay here. I’m _not_ leaving you behind.”

He kept trying to dissuade her as they walked. When Victoria froze, pain shooting through her head and her vision momentarily going black, he noticed it and immediately commented about it. And, no matter how many times she told him she was fine and that she wouldn’t leave, he tried to convince her otherwise.

They were nearing a ledge when the inevitable happened and Walter collapsed. “I—I can’t—I can’t—”

“Walter, get up. Please. You have to get up,” Victoria begged, trying to pull him up. But she couldn’t move him.

“Go on,” Walter told her. “I _can’t_ —you go on without me.”

“No, I—”

“I’ll be alright. It’s all going to be alright,” he breathed, sounding slightly delirious.

There was no other choice. “I’ll come back for you, Walter, I swear it. I’ll get help.”

“You’ll do me proud. I know you’ll do me proud.”

Walter passed out. She tried to wake him for a minute or so before realizing it just wasn’t going to happen yet. Teary-eyed, she made sure he was in a shaded area and stepped solemnly away from him and toward the ledge.

The jump down was long, but it wasn’t very hard of a landing. She brushed herself off, and, quickly as she could, began running across the desert sands.

Nero, with his four legs, had an advantage in navigating the massive dunes whereas Victoria was condemned to struggling up one slope only to slide down the other side. She was tired, but too worried for Walter to consider resting. The sand and boulders seemed nearly endless and the statue never appeared to be getting any closer. The sun beat down on her, causing trickles of sweat to run down her back and seep into her wounds. The cuts across her ribs throbbed with every breath she took. _Don’t stop now. Keep going_.

Everything went dark. Victoria whirled around, trying to see. It was chaos. She tried to run onwards, but got caught up inside a black whirlwind instead. Shapes, figures, and sounds swam past her. She felt like she was being suffocated, and, though she thought she saw and heard Walter a couple times, she couldn’t _truly_ see. _Why can’t I see?!_

“ _Are you blind? Are you blind yet?!_ ” the voice of the creature from the temple cackled. It came from all around her.

And then she was falling.


	18. The Snark and The Boojum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's my cat's birthday and he's not feeling well, so here's a chapter.

Victoria fell through darkness only to land on a patch of soft, slightly damp grass. Something nagged at the back of her mind, but she couldn’t focus on it. It was night and it was also bitterly cold. She felt like a little girl again in her overly frilly dress. She walked onwards, slippers making only the faintest of whispers against the grass. Eventually, she came across a man.

His head was bowed as he softly wept before a large stone. The bitter wind mussed his long, dark ponytail and he was clothed entirely in black as if in mourning. Under his breath, he kept repeating, “You’ve disappointed me so very much.”

“Daddy?” she asked meekly, recognizing his voice for his appearance was so much younger than she had ever known. Voice slightly stronger, she said again, “Father?”

Sparrow never heard her.

Confused and worried, Victoria moved around the rock to see what was wrong. It wasn’t a rock; it was a tombstone. More specifically, _her_ tombstone. Horror rose in her throat like bile, fear blossoming with it. _Her_ _tombstone_. She—was she _dead?!_

Sparrow’s words finally struck her. _You’ve disappointed me so very much_.

“ _No_ ,” she whimpered. She stepped back as though slapped. Still backtracking, she whirled around and ran, not caring where to as long as she was getting away. Buildings, people, they all blurred as she ran…and then she hit something hard.

Warm arms enfolded her, holding her close. The person she’d crashed into swayed her gently in rhythm to a dark, tinkling melody as they maneuvered her hands into a better dancing pose as the music flowed around them. The oddness of the action’s familiarity calmed her heart even as it unnerved her mind.

“Running rather late, aren’t we?” a familiar voice asked with arrogant cheer.

Victoria looked up, blushing when she realised whom she had crashed into. Her embarrassment quickly turned to surprise. “Reaver, you—you can _see_ me?”

“But _of course_ I can, _ma belle_. Who couldn’t in that train wreck of an ensemble?”

She ignored the slight, knowing that her frilly dress was truly terrible; any other time and she would have immediately gone to change. “I—I don’t understand. Reaver, what’s going on?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“No, it’s not. I mean, I saw dad and my _grave_ and—” Her grip on his hand tightened as if looking for support. “Oh, Avo, I’m dead. Am I dead?”

“Not yet, I’m afraid. Aren’t _you_ the lucky one?” he retorted, a little too much sarcasm in his voice to be comforting.

_Then what’s happening to me?_

Reaver kept her dancing, and it took her a moment to realise he was trying to keep her attention on him. Curious as to why, she peeked over his shoulder…and quickly had to look away, shrinking closer to him as if he would keep her from harm. The dance floor had been set up on a terrace within the gardens of Reaver's Millfields mansion, but the beauty of her surroundings could not still her pounding heart. People lined the area around the dance floor. And, though she could probably call them courtiers if she was to go by their overly-large wigs and frivolous manner of dress, she thought the more apt name for them was _demons_. For that was how they appeared, twisted and malign—their faces bore the signs of every sin they had ever abused to steal whatever pleasure they wanted out of life. And they looked _hungry_.

Curiously, Reaver did not. If anything, he looked much the same; though, perhaps his hair and eyes were much lighter and he seemed slightly more youthful. And, dressed completely in white, he was glowing. The effervescent light that shone from him was keeping the demonic nobles at bay, if her assumption was correct, and she suddenly felt slightly safer.

Reaver slowed them to a halt and, almost thoughtfully, said, “This isn’t _real_ …you _do_ know that, don’t you?”

“What isn’t real?” Victoria asked, puzzled by his words.

“ _This_ ,” he said, gesturing to the area around them. “None of it is real. It’s all an illusion.”

“What are you talking about? Of course this is real. How could it not be?”

Reaver was utterly serious. “Victoria, it’s not.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“You _need_ to listen to me—”

“Let go of me. Reaver, _let go!_ ”

He let go and took a step back, looking as though she had slapped him. “It _isn’t_ real,” he insisted after a moment of silence, “and you would do well to realise that.”

“You must be mad if you think I’d ever believe that.”

Before he could remark, she turned and ran. She raced off into dark trees, trying to run from both her problems and the monsters behind her. She couldn’t believe Reaver. It was such a lie, and a cruel one, at that. _Ignore him, ignore him, ignore him_.

Plants snatched greedily at her feet, trying to catch her. She kept going, not wanting to be caught. Whispers filled the air. Evil whispers that told her everything she didn’t want to hear; dark truths and horrible lies that _sounded_ true. She was unsure why the voice whispering to her sounded so familiar.

A vine wound around her foot, trapping her there. She struggled and tried to pull away, but it wouldn’t budge. Soon another vine wrapped around the other foot and then another and another until she was tightly bound. Frightened and unable to move, Victoria sat there, worrying about what was to happen to her next. Some part of her mind wondered why she didn’t call out for Reaver. _Too far away. Wouldn’t hear me. And he probably wouldn’t care too much even if he did._

She was unsure for how long she sat there. The air grew even colder, chilling her very bones. Victoria was so cold, so tired, her consciousness began to pull away from her. She was only dimly aware when marching feet approached her. Royal guards, an entire squadron, surrounded her. Their faces were blank, menacing masks that matched the rest of their armour. She barely noticed when two of them cut the vines from her feet and tried to see if she was awake. They lifted her up. Blood rushed from her head. She felt a great surge of dizziness, and then…then there was nothing.

Victoria came to her senses in a dank cell. There was no guard or window nor any other way for her to check _when_ she was. There was no one else in the dungeon; no one but her and the rats scurrying on the floor and in the walls. She curled into a ball in her meagre cot, trying to block out the scent of mould and decay and the sound of faintly dripping water. Trying to block out _everything_.

“Well, my dear, this is a bit of a _downgrade_ for you, isn’t it?” Reaver’s voice taunted after she had been there for a while. “It’s very… _mephitic_.”

She slowly raised her head from her knees to find him leaning leisurely against the bars of her cell. “What are you doing here?” she asked miserably. “Come to mock me and lie to me more, have you?”

“Oh, no, no, _no_. I would _never_ dream of _lying_ to you, Your Highness.” His head tilted slightly as he inspected his perfectly manicured nails. “I only wanted to see how you were getting on. And if you figured it out, yet, of course.”

“I’m not in the mood for your games, Reaver.”

“You’re _never_ in the mood for games, my sweet. _That_ is why you are frigid and bitter. Now, _do_ try to employ that logic your brother and yourself enjoy so very much and think this through.”

Victoria looked blankly at him with emotionless eyes, for once impervious to the insult that, before, would have infuriated her. “You’re going to tell me what’s wrong, anyway, so I give up. Go ahead. Tell me. Mock my lack of knowledge; I know you want to.”

“Mmm, as enticing as that sounds…no. I don’t think I will.” Reaver smirked enigmatically at her, issuing a nonverbal challenge.

Victoria was slightly outraged. “ _What?!_ Then why bother coming? Why even come speak to me if you aren’t going to help?!”

“Because you neither require nor _want_ help, you daft girl,” Reaver told her as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “The answer’s directly before you. I only came to… _motivate_ you.”

The Princess shivered, having no doubt about how exactly he intended to motivate her. She blushed and looked away. “Why can’t you just tell me what to do?”

Reaver laughed and she turned back to him. “Where would be the point in that?”

When she next blinked, Reaver had vanished from the dungeon.

Left alone once more, and wanting to bang her head against the mossy stone walls, she tried to figure out what Reaver had meant. She wasn’t receiving help because she didn’t need it? Well, she was pretty sure she _did_ need help. But Reaver had said the answers were right in front of her if she chose to look for them. Metaphorically or… _actually_ in front of her? Well, she hoped he meant it metaphorically because all that was really before her was rats, old stones, and darkness.

She thought she spent at least a day in that cell, trying to search her almost non-existent memories for answers. When the guards came for her, she was almost relieved to see them. Maybe she could finally get some of the answers she so desperately craved.

This, however, was not the case.

They silently escorted her though halls of jet black stone. Red tapers burned in the candelabras and exquisite rugs the colour of blood ran down the centre of each hall. There were no servants, no art, no anything in the halls except the guards posted at regular intervals. The eerie, menacing silence that hovered in the halls was more encompassing than the silence of the grave. She was led into a large hall, a throne room she supposed if one were to go by the large stone throne at the far end of it.

Logan sat upon it, looking as cold as if he were made of the same stone as his throne. He watched her with almost lifeless eyes as the guards brought her closer. Victoria didn’t feel very good about the situation, especially since her brother didn’t exactly look forgiving. The guards stepped away from her, leaving the siblings to face each other.

“So you have finally returned,” he said softly, as if saying the words any louder would be shameful.

“Logan—”

“Quiet, sister,” he ordered and Victoria went silent. “I have no interest in the excuses of a girl who came back from the dead only to shame and dishonour her family. The crimes you have committed are of the most heinous and disgusting nature. Have you anything to say for yourself?”

Victoria was beyond-the-edge-of-the-map lost. She had no idea what Logan was on about. _Crimes? Back from the_ dead _?_ “Logan, I—I don’t know what you’re talking about. How can I defend something I neither did nor recall doing?”

“Are you so cold you will not answer to your crimes?”

“I won’t admit to a crime I didn’t commit.”

“Then you leave me no choice. Victoria of Albion, for the crimes of high treason, conspiracy, and murder, I sentence you to be publicly executed—”

“ _What?!_ ”

“—at dawn tomorrow. May Skorm have mercy on you. Take my _sister_ back to her chambers,” he added to the guards.

The guards forcefully led the fuming girl away. Victoria fought and struggled against them the entire time they dragged her along, but their grip on her never loosened. They carted her through hall after claustrophobic hall, each as dark and empty as the last. She’d gone quiet by the time they finally stopped in front of a door. Her body beginning to grow weary when they pushed her in and slammed the heavy door. Victoria was too tired to run or fight. That tiredness in mind, she forced herself to sit down before she fell down. Some of her energy returned as she looked around the room; more specifically, _her_ room. Everything from the red-hung bed to the crackling fireplace to the precise angle at which her changing screen stood was exactly the way in which she had left it. That observation just added another layer of disturbance onto her already panicking mind. She didn’t know what to do now. How did one avoid being executed?

More than once in the night, she found herself dozing off against her will. Then, as though becoming aware of some predator creeping up upon her, she would bolt awake to stare about the room in terror. Several times, she thought she heard someone call her name, though it was far too faint for her to know who. Nerves more high-strung than ever, she jumped when the door finally opened.

“What a dreadfully sorry sight this is,” a familiar voice sighed upon entering the room.

“Jasper!” she gasped, a thrill of hope running through her. She bolted to her feet. “Jasper, you’re here.”

“But of course I am, Your Highness. It is my duty to serve the royal family.”

“Yes, yes, but Jasper, you _must_ help me escape.”

“Nonsense,” Jasper said as though it was all a bunch of hogwash. Victoria’s heart sank a little as she watched him remove things from a wardrobe. “You can’t possibly run off now.”

“Why not?”

“The King’s word is law. Even you must agree, if you’ve decided not to leave already,” Jasper said reasonably as he beckoned her over. “Now, let’s get you dressed and looking like a proper young lady.”

Body completely on autopilot, she allowed her butler to remove her tattered gown and undergarments as she thought over the more pressing issue at hand. “But Logan wants to execute me for something I did not do.”

Jasper carefully unrolled a pair of silk stockings and helped her into them before reaching for the garter to hold them up. “Are you quite certain you refrained from committing such crimes?”

“Of course!” she insisted, realizing the garters were uncomfortably, painfully, tight. “I would _never_ do such horrible things. Jasper, you know that.”

He was helping her into her drawers now, and the garter was beginning to hurt; which was strange because garters were never that tight. “Can you remember _not_ doing them, Princess?”

“I—what are you trying to insinuate, Jasper?” she shot back defensively. She couldn’t remember _anything_.

“Nothing. I am only trying to help.”

She maintained a huffy silence as Jasper managed to get her into a corset, thoughts of how to not die still running through her head. He laced the laces with the practiced care and efficiency of one who tied them on a regular basis. And he began to tighten it. Slowly, carefully, he pulled at first, adding greater force the tighter it got. The air vanished from her lungs. Victoria struggled to breathe, feeling as though she were being pulled through a very tight tube. She heard her ribs crack and splinter before she even truly felt it. She coughed, struggling for a breath as blood splattered against her hands. Pain tore through her thighs where the garter cut into her flesh. She quickly looked down and, to Victoria’s horror, saw deep scarlet drenching her drawers below the garters. _What’s—what’s happening to me?_ she thought, panicking as she coughed once more.

“We really should hurry to get you dressed,” Jasper said fastidiously, oblivious to what was happening to his charge.

“Jasper—” she began, afraid, only to cut herself off with a scream. Jasper had forced her chemise on over her head and the second it had touched her, her skin had been sent ablaze in agony. It was as if she were a match head, struck and aflame; burning, burning, burning.

Victoria stumbled away from him, trying and failing to claw away the scalding fabric from her agonized skin.

“Might I be of assistance?” Jasper asked helpfully.

She turned to ask if this was entirely some sort of cruel joke, but stopped when she caught sight of his eyes. “Oh, Avo, you’re one of them,” she gasped, the demonic courtiers coming to mind at the sight of those black, vacuous pits. Staggering like a drunkard, Victoria moved towards the door. “Keep _away_ from me!”

“Princess? What—what are you—?”

Victoria bolted from the room. The garters carved into her thighs, but she couldn’t stop. She—she had to get away. She didn’t want to die, not like that. Skin burning and ribs thoroughly broken, she ran down hall after hall, leaving a thick trail of blood behind her. She was severely weakened by the time she reached the garden.

A blood-coloured sun was beginning to rise in a velvet sky. It cast a sanguine light to everything as she hurried through the plant-life. The mausoleum stood, bone-white and gleaming, before her. Not knowing anywhere else to go, she stumbled into it…only to crash into someone.

She buried her face in his chest when she saw that it was only Reaver. “Please don’t take me back there. Please,” she begged, clinging to him. “I’m sorry I yelled at you; just—just don’t let them take me. Don’t let me die.”

He shushed her, calmed her, and led her deeper into the tomb. “What a mess you are, Princess,” he sighed as he cut away her chemise and pulled it off of her. “Were you _trying_ to get yourself killed?”

Her skin stopped burning as soon as the fabric was gone. Victoria sighed in relief only to yelp at the pain it caused and to cough up more blood. “N-no.”

“Nevertheless, let’s get you out of these things. It would be an _awful_ waste if you got this far only to _die_ now.”

He was being annoyingly cryptic again, but Victoria found she couldn’t be angry with Reaver as he cut away the laces on her corset. The relief it brought to her shattered ribs was too great. He sat her down on a stone plinth and pushed up the bottom of her drawers to get at the garters. When they were removed, Victoria felt a stab of horror at the realisation that the garters were lined with small spikes and blades.

“Thank you,” she murmured, feeling indebted to him. “You—I think you probably just saved my life. Again.”

“I did, didn’t I?” His words were accompanied by one of his more annoying smirks before he kissed her.

The blade he’d used to cut away her chemise was still in his hand as he pulled her closer to the edge. The metal was icy where it touched her and felt almost teasingly erotic as the sharp edge grazed her skin. He pulled away abruptly, though, and Victoria sighed in disapproval. Quietly, he added, “I feel I should apologize beforehand, though.”

Victoria was, understandably, confused. “Why?”

Her eyes went wide and her breath caught as he slid the knife up, under her ribs. She tried to struggle, to pull away, but he held her firmly to him. And, as her vision darkened, she heard him say, “I could think of no other way to wake you up.”

Everything went hazy. She heard voices, far off and hurried. Panicked. Alarmed. She felt someone lift her up. _I’m not dead!_ she thought desperately, trying to give the thought vocalization. _Don’t bury me, yet! He didn’t kill me!_

Sometimes people would carry her, and sometimes she would just continue to float along in the darkness. Once, she thought she heard a dog bark, but she didn’t hear it again.

And then her vision began to return. She wondered if someone had healed her. Brightness and blurred colour was all she saw. Voices, she could hear those, too. A dark shape leaned over her, blocking out the light, and she wished they would move.

“She’s waking up,” a worried, somewhat familiar voice said.

“No!” an older woman’s voice proclaimed. “She cannot! I have not yet finished with her!”

“Maybe she needs another dose?”

Victoria’s vision refused to clear. Words didn’t entirely compute to her mind, either. She wanted to say something, anything, but her voice refused to work.

“Here, Princess,” a third, calming, voice said as something was pressed against her lips. “Drink, and sleep.”

She did as she was bid and knew no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "They hunted till darkness came on, but they found  
> Not a button, or feather, or mark,  
> By which they could tell that they stood on the ground  
> Where the Baker had met with the Snark.  
> In the midst of the word he was trying to say,  
> In the midst of his laughter and glee,  
> He had softly and suddenly vanished away—  
> For the Snark was a Boojum, you see."  
> ~Lewis Carrol (The Hunting of The Snark, Fit the Eighth: The Vanishing)


	19. Kalin and The City of Nightmares

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got my cat to the vet. He's got an abscessed tooth and so it and the tooth next to it (which is also infected) are gonna be removed soon. Otherwise, Stilts is perfectly healthy. Yay!

_Everything around her was dim and blurred as though a blanket of fog had been drawn over the world, rendering her surroundings to nothing more than pale splashes of random colour on a bland background…almost like spring flowers attempting to peer through the morning mist. She could feel something dark and full of malice attempting to push its way into her consciousness, like rats nibbling around the edge of a door, but it didn’t have enough power behind it and, eventually, it faded into a more passive aggressive sensation of looming shadow. More disconcerting, however, was the feeling she had of not being alone in her own head. It was not an evil or angry-feeling presence, but it_ was _intimidating and it lingered at the edge of her mind like a shy, not-entirely-welcome houseguest. She had the strange sense that it was trying to ask her something, but she wasn’t entirely certain_ what. _All she knew was that she’d felt the word “black” echo questioningly through her mind several times in a slow succession._

_She was just about to push back and ask who was there when the strange presence suddenly faded. The darkness reared up again like a snake prepared to strike, stronger now than before, and—_

Victoria bolted awake, staring about what she could see of the small stone room with a paranoid’s enthusiasm. Her eyes flicked from corner to corner of the sand-coloured room where shadows had begun to pool, courtesy of the waning dusky light being filtered in through triangular holes carved into the wall. The cloyingly ashy but pungently sweet scent of incense swirled and melded with the musky scent of hot wax in an increasingly familiar head rush. The lit candles on a low, nearby table provided minimal comfort. She was alone. Breathing a shaky sigh of relief, the Princess forced herself to relax. _You’re alright, you’re safe. No one can harm you_.

She had been within the city of Aurora for nearing on a week now, and it was only a couple days ago that she had woken up from delusions brought on by the darkness. After which the Auroran woman whom had healed her, Priestess Mara, had instructed her to remain on bedrest until her strength had returned. In a sense it was more maddening than the visions. She knew Walter was unwell—still afflicted by the creature they had barely escaped—and it pained her to be unable to stay with him. To distract herself, she used meal times to her advantage to seek answers. Questions about how she and Walter had been found led to conflicting answers that, in turn, conflicted with her own memories. Some had said that Walter had carried her close to the city while others said they had both been found stranded and unconscious in the desert (Shifting Sands, the Aurorans had called it). In the end, Victoria stopped asking. She supposed it didn’t matter who had found them or how as long as they were safe now; she also didn’t want to think about the possibility that the creature was manipulating her memories or perception of the world even at this time. Instead, she turned her questions to how Walter was faring and if Page had been found. While the first question always brought on the answer of “unchanged”, the second one had yielded happier results. Page, apparently, had been found _hours_ before Victoria and Walter had been and, as a result, the revolutionary had convinced the locals and their leader to search for them. It was a debt Victoria was uncomfortable with, if only because she didn’t know how she would repay it, but she was thankful nonetheless. At least now she and Walter had a chance of recovering and could keep safe from the threat of eternal darkness and the things that lingered within it.

Her skin crawled at the memory and, suddenly restless, Victoria sat up and pushed aside the thin scarlet blankets she’d formerly cocooned herself in. Habitually, she glanced toward the end of her blankets in search of Nero but only received confirmation that he was still laying guard over Walter—it hadn’t been easy to convince Priestess Mara to allow it (after all, the elderly woman was stubborn and had an aura of power that reminded Victoria of a Will-using friend of her father) but Victoria felt relieved that Walter would have at least one familiar face with him if… _when_ he woke up. Sighing to herself, Victoria struggled up from her mound of pillows and blankets. As she untangled her borrowed linen skirt from her legs she contemplated going to see Page. She _really_ wanted to see Walter, but, if he _truly_ wasn’t well enough for visitors, then seeing Page seemed the better option. Still…the thought of seeing Page made her uneasy. She couldn’t help but recall the mistrust in Page’s eyes back in Bowerstone and, in turn, felt her own mistrust grow.

By the time she’d untangled her skirt and stumbled toward the curtain-draped archway on her extremely wobbly feet, she’d made up her mind. Even if Walter wasn’t conscious, she would go see him and wait. She even had the excuse of needing to speak with Priestess Mara at the ready if anyone attempted to stop her—especially given she did have a few more questions for the elderly woman. Something about the fact that her sub-conscious had chosen to imitate Reaver as an almost…beacon of light, or some other such rubbish, to force her out of the darkness that had been slowly poisoning her really warranted a better explanation. _Several_ better explanations, because she was certain it would _never_ make sense to her.

Her ribs throbbed, protesting her every move, and she tried to be mindful of the bandages encasing the entirety of her chest as she staggered down the hall. Candles lined the sides of the hall, dripping wax from where they sat on the floor and illuminating the pale stone walls in a welcoming golden hue. Victoria would have liked to use the walls for balance, but she didn’t want to chance being set on fire and so she slowly made her way forward, her bare feet shuffling slightly in a stubborn effort to keep from toppling over. Arches had been carved into the walls at intervals and Victoria peeked into them as she passed by. There was something strangely sorrowful about the men and women with their heads bowed and their hands clasped in prayer as they prepared for bed and she found it even sadder to see the occasional family attempting to settle into their small room. The air was thick with fear and Victoria became aware that, even if she took into account the creature in the desert, there was something truly and utterly _wrong_ here. More wrong than anything she’d ever encountered in Albion.

Mouth set in a grim line and concern beginning to blossom in her heart, she entered a chamber far larger than any she’d seen thus far. An enormous altar took up an entire wall, littered with candles and the figures of strange deities carved from the same pale stone as the walls or, in rare cases, out of a blue stone Victoria had never seen before. Small handfuls of the ever-present candles illuminated a path leading away from the altar and to a large circular carving set in the opposite wall. The wall across from her was bathed in shadow and she barely noticed an arch set in the stone directly across from her. _Maybe Walter’s through there?_ Victoria barely hesitated before slowly crossing the room. She faltered slightly as she approached the arch, hearing raised voices.

“I didn’t say that,” a voice, which Victoria slowly realised was Page’s, said defensively. “But I don’t want to distract her at a time like this. We have enough trouble on our hands as it is!”

She heard another person, a woman, sigh, and an unfamiliar voice slowly replied, “I do not mean to distract her, but to inform her of the facts.”

Page started to argue, but cut herself off as Victoria knocked lightly on the stone archway.

“Hello?” she said tentatively, wondering what she had just accidentally walked in on.

“Princess, you’re up,” Page observed, sounding slightly guilty as if she had done something wrong. But her face showed genuine relief and happiness to see her. “Good. How are you?”

“I’m fine,” Victoria insisted, though she didn’t really feel it. “I was looking for Walter. I…I take it he still isn’t awake?”

As Page shook her head forlornly, the other woman finally turned from what she had been doing to look at Victoria. Her head was shaved and her skin smooth, unblemished, like coffee with too much cream. Victoria thought that the woman, with her strange but undecorated clothes and blue and white body art was more exotic than anything she had ever seen before. But there was power and confidence in the way she held herself and her almond eyes were sharp and, without needing to say a single word, Victoria knew this woman wasn’t a fool. _She must lead the country_ , Victoria thought. _Or be close to whoever does_.

“Welcome to Aurora, Your Highness,” the woman said in her slow, calming voice. She inclined her head respectfully. “My name is Kalin. I apologize for not coming to speak with you sooner, but I was detained. I am glad to see you have recovered.”

“Thank you,” Victoria said awkwardly, inclining her head in reply. “And thank you, truly, for saving us, but…no one has been able to tell me—” She hesitated, uncomfortable, before adding in a slightly stronger voice, “Do you have any idea what that thing that attacked us is?”

Kalin looked troubled, but didn’t look away as all the others Victoria asked had. “The creature you faced in the desert caves is known to us. We know it as the Crawler; it has troubled us for some time now.” She gave Page a sideways look, somewhere between disapproving and curious in nature, before her gaze returned to the worried Princess. “If you are well enough, I would like you to see our city.”

Wondering at the look Kalin had given Page and concerned at what it could mean if the Aurorans were so familiar with “the Crawler”, Victoria nodded. “I’m more than well enough.”

With a polite bow, Kalin showed them back into the chamber with the altar and led the way over to the carving opposite it. When she gave it a small push, the round centre rolled, like a massive coin on its side, out of the way. Beyond the opening was darkness; a large, gaping hole like the maw of some fantastical monster. Hesitating slightly, the Princess walked out of the temple and into the darkness.

~ * ~

Something about the way the sea’s salted air mixed with the scent of a breeze known only to the night was invigorating. It spoke of adventure and romance—and great, passionate sex—and seemed to stir in his very blood and command him to do…something. _Anything_. Preferably something involving a ship or a gun. But Reaver’s feeling of wanderlust couldn’t be entertained just yet. He was too busy playing pretend…and pretending to be honest and trustworthy—respectable—was harder than pretending to be a work-minded businessman. Or even a decent person! After all, a businessman was expected to be tricky and ready to manipulate any given situation, and if you watched enough decent people, you learned to imitate them passably when the time called for it. (Besides, he had guests waiting for him at home; it would be terribly _unseemly_ of him to not go _entertain_ them when he was done here.) However, no amount of trickery or imitation can prepare oneself for lying to the King about the whereabouts of his little sister. Reaver made the mental note to do _something_ dastardly the next time he saw the Princess; she was ruining _every single one_ of his plans without even being present. _Insufferable girl_ , he thought fondly, amused by it all.

He followed Logan through the royal gardens, somehow managing to keep track of everything the King said about upping worker morale as Reaver alternated between planning out what he would do when he next saw Victoria and praying to whatever god would listen to him that Logan would _not_ ask the one question Reaver was uncertain how to answer. Unfortunately, the royal family and his gods didn’t seem to be on the same wavelength as him, seeing as neither _ever_ did as he wanted.

“And how is my sister lately?” Logan enquired with affected nonchalance. Though he looked as focused and thoughtful as ever, he seemed even tenser than usual and almost irritable.

Reaver inwardly cringed and had to work a great deal to keep it from showing on his face. His voice was smooth and flattering, however, as he replied, “I would have thought she’d have told you herself, already… _Your Majesty_.”

“I have not received word from her in some time,” Logan retorted sharply, stopping his walking to look out over the sea. The setting sun deepened the shadows on his thin, sharp-featured face, making him look even more austere than usual and even a mite…tired.

The industrialist half-shrugged as if it were all a trivial matter. “You must understand how she is, Sire; she simply throws herself into a project and keeps to herself until it’s done. I’m afraid she’s taking her promise to commit to this engagement rather seriously,” Reaver added with careless gesture of his gloved hands—both his words and the gesture designed to assuage the King’s fears and invoke a feeling of there being nothing to hide. “I’m certain you will hear from her soon enough.”

Logan visibly relaxed, though he still stood perfectly straight and proud. It was as though a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders and Reaver worked to hide his amusement. While he’d not truly lied, Logan really didn’t have all the facts. Victoria, from what his sources had told him, _was_ staying committed to an engagement; just not the one her brother would have agreed with.

There was no point in _worrying_ the King, though, Reaver had decided. After all, he was sure that, despite the Princess vanishing from his spies sights, she would be back very soon; and with an army behind her. She was just rather resourceful that way.

“Come,” Logan said abruptly, beckoning Reaver to follow him back to the castle, “and tell me of your ideas to expand Bowerstone Industrial.”

As Reaver turned to do so, he cast one last look at the sea, her waves glittering with jewel-like colours in the last rays of the sun. It would be soon, now. He could feel it in the air.

~ * ~

Victoria could taste smoke in the air; bitter and acidic, it burned and constricted her throat. That combined with the oppressive dryness and heat soaking through her bandages made her feel as if she were stepping into a giant oven. But what she saw before her elicited such concern that neither the temperature nor her slightly revealing attire bothered her very much.

Aurora was in ruins.

The sandstone houses—once almost half-sphere in shape, if one were to judge by the few that still remained somewhat intact—were crumbled into smoking debris, and those that were still standing were boarded up, in terrible shape. Dead bodies littered the sand swept streets—some wrapped in blankets to prepare them for burial while others, apparently extremely recent deaths, were uncovered. In between strings of beads and colourful paintings on the sides of buildings, pieces of paper—notes and letters, if the multitude of them attached along the walls of the stairs she currently stood on was any indication—had been stuck into the walls. Tiny altars were choked with melted wax, strings of beads and coloured stones, dead flowers and dried up food around splintered statues of local gods. And yet…nothing moved in the city; not the breeze, not a creature…not even a banner on a pole. It was a city lost in a nightmare, a dead city. A necropolis.

“What happened here?” Victoria breathed, her lips chapped and her body shaking with the effort to remain upright.

“The Crawler did this,” Kalin told her quietly, moving out of the glow of the door into the temple behind them to stand beside the Princess. Her voice didn’t sound as though she were interested in sympathy or apologies, just as though she was stating a simple fact. “He arrived on our shores over five years ago, bringing only death and destruction; we have known no peace since.” As Victoria stood there, trying to take it all in and trying to accept this new view of the world she’d been afforded, Kalin added, “But you are not the first outsiders to witness the destruction the Crawler has afforded us.”

Victoria’s heart sank, a touch of unease casting a shadow over her thoughts. She was uncertain she _really_ wanted to hear the answer as she hesitantly enquired, “Who was the other?”

Kalin turned to look at her fully for the first time in many moments. Her face was set as she tried to project an air of quiet strength. It didn’t quite work, though, as her features were creased with weariness and worry for her people hung upon her shoulders like a burial shroud. “His name was Logan,” Kalin confessed, confirming the Princess’s fears. “The King of Albion.”

“It looks like your brother has been keeping more secrets than we thought,” Page interjected from behind them. Victoria jumped, having forgotten the revolutionary was there. Their eyes met and the look Page gave her was indecipherable and yet still profoundly questioning.

Victoria recalled, well over four years ago now, when Logan had abruptly left on a voyage—he hadn’t told her where and hadn’t even tried to consider her pleas to go with him. The discussion had erupted into a heated row and Victoria hadn’t seen him again until he’d returned from his journey. But something had been wrong—her brother wasn’t the man he’d been before and she hadn’t understood _why_. If he really had come and seen all the Crawler had done…that explained so very much, and yet…some part of her remained in denial. “What d—how—I-I don’t understand. Logan _knew_ about this and _never_ said a thing?” Victoria paused, feeling even furtherly betrayed. She _wanted_ to understand, to find a way to explain this all away. Slowly, she gathered up her fraying nerves and enquired, “What happened?”

“We found him as we found you. He had witnessed the murder of his entire group of soldiers and would have been killed himself had it not been for our care. He promised to return with an army.” Kalin looked away, despairing and unable to meet either Victoria or Page’s eyes. Her voice was even, however, as she continued, “That was over four years ago. We never saw him again.”

The air around them was utterly silent as Victoria tried to take everything in and Kalin tried to calm herself. Victoria found she still couldn’t understand her brother’s point of view; no longer wanted to. Logan had done some terrible things, she knew. She could look at the plight of the people of Albion and saw how it all traced back to him. But this…. Leaving an entire country to suffer for…for what? It was strangely cruel for her brother. It wasn’t like him at all and it didn’t make sense.

Words rose unbidden from the back of her memory, _‘did the blind seer not tell you about us?’_ Something about this all wasn’t right. There were too many missing pieces to the puzzle and yet…somehow it all felt connected. But so few people were telling her so little. _How does this all connect? How do I fix this?_

“What can I do?”

“Page has told us of your revolution,” Kalin replied, meeting her eyes once more. “Promise to us that once you are Queen, you will rebuild and protect us as part of your Kingdom. We have few warriors left here, but if you give us what your brother could not, then we will join you and serve loyally.”

Victoria hesitated, thinking of all the other promises she had made: to keep Mistpeak safe for the Dwellers, to restore Brightwall’s Academy and reinstate the old guard, to end corruption and treachery in Bowerstone. So many promises to so many people. _How much more will you give away before nothing remains?_ a voice in the back of her head murmured, sounding oddly like Reaver. _How far will you go to do what you feel is right and get what you want?_ Her throat seemed to constrict on her and she remained silent for longer than she would have liked before she finally said, “I will not pretend to have come here with the thought of helping you. My thoughts were more selfish in nature, hoping _you_ could help _us_. And, I must admit, I’ve doubted myself lately. But seeing this…I can’t just sit back and do nothing. I’ll give you all the protection I can, I promise you.”

Kalin grasped the Princess’s hand firmly, shaking it with a grim smile on her painted face. “Then let us go to war.”


	20. To Arms

Something about the dimness of the room and the way the incense choked the air in thick, pale swirls made what they were about to do seem obscene. Victoria settled down on the edge of the stone platform, ignoring the way the rock all-but cut into her knees as she held Nero to her chest; some time between being rendered unconscious by the Crawler and waking up in Aurora, her tattoos had begun to glow with the soft blue light of her Will and now the glow cast odd shadows on those closest to her in the darkness. She could hear Page and Kalin whispering behind her, but she didn’t bother to look back or ask what they were talking about. Instead, she focused on Priestess Mara. The frail-looking woman carefully knelt down at the other side of the platform, keeping Walter’s prone and unconscious form between them.

“There is a strong chance,” Priestess Mara said slowly, “that he will not wake.”

Victoria drew in a deep, shaky breath and her hands flexed just slightly in Nero’s long fur. She nodded.

A chant fell from Priestess Mara’s lips, unravelling like so many threads to fall upon the still air with grave sentiment. Her words raised gooseflesh on Victoria’s arms and legs and she fought to keep from shuddering at the sudden sensation that washed over her—the feeling of ants crawling just under her skin. She kept her eyes trained on Walter, hoping for even a small sign that he was beginning to wake up.

But there was nothing. And, by the time Priestess Mara had finished her ritual, Walter’s condition remained unchanged.

~ * ~

Daytime ruined the aura of eerie sanctity the temple usually emanated and reduced it to something that was merely quiet and reserved, like the feeling one got from a library or a museum. Victoria remained by Walter’s side as often as possible, trying to offer up what moral support she could as well as offer help to the younger priests and priestesses to keep Walter as healthy as possible.  And still, every time Priestess Mara would do her chant, no matter how desperately Victoria prayed, there was no change.

Walter simply…lied still.

~ * ~

_Walter…Walter, I know you can wake up. You can do it. You’re fine. You’re safe now. Just wake up. Just open your eyes. You can do it._

~ * ~

_Please, Walter. Please. You must wake up. I can’t do this without you. Please, please wake up._

~ * ~

_Just a sign. Oh, Avo, is it too much to ask to ask for one bloody sign? Please! Please, wake up. Don’t leave me. Please, please, please…._

~ * ~

_Wake up…please, wake up…._

~ * ~

The sun hung low before her like a great golden disk, bathing the formerly blue canvas of the sky in a myriad of bright colours: magenta and red fading into yellow, orange, and gold; the palest wisp of green dissolving into the darkest of indigo and violet. Stars were beginning to come out far above the earth, pinpricks of silver and diamond amidst the fresco.

Exhausted, Victoria leaned against the wall of the temple, eating some sort of strange fruit as she watched one of Nature’s most striking displays. As she chewed, she decided it didn’t taste half bad—the fruit, not the sunset—even though she was beginning to miss Albion’s food. She wasn’t really hungry, though, and she was only eating to keep anyone from chiding her later. The stress was beginning to get to her and, for the first time in…just about her entire life, she truly resembled her brother: her face pale and haggard with dark smudges slowly beginning to form under her eyes; most days her expression lay somewhere between despairing and severe. But they had been in Aurora for nearly three months now and, as much as Victoria had failed to shake her current emotional state, she knew it was time to get her mind back on the mission.

Aurora had spent the previous few months preparing for war. Though it was against Priestess Mara’s wishes, Victoria had taken to helping where she could—armour was repaired and polished, what few cannons they had were rolled aboard ships, and bundles of weapons were stocked. Travel supplies were hoarded as ship sails were patched and lines were tethered. In a very short amount of time, the devastated city of Aurora had mobilized into a war-ready army. But, despite their efforts, Victoria could see in their faces that they didn’t believe they had very much of a chance against Albion’s military. She wanted to say that she felt differently—that they _could_ win easily—but she didn’t have very much faith left herself. Morale was almost painfully low and it dropped further the more time went by.

There was only one thing keeping them from moving ahead with their plans: Walter.

He still hadn’t woken up and no one was quite sure if it was safe to move him before he awoke. Victoria, however, was beginning to lose hope with each passing day. He’d not moved outside of breathing and didn’t respond to anything they did. Early on, Priestess Mara had warned her that _very_ few people _ever_ awoke from the darkness; that she had been lucky to come back from it. And, though Victoria had accepted it, she’d just never thought Walter could ever be counted among the numbers of those who had fallen. He’d always seemed too strong willed, too larger than life, for that.

 _But he isn’t dead yet_ , she thought fiercely.

Despite the grim outlook of things, Victoria was still determined not to give up just yet. Finally, after all this time, they were making headway, and she _would not_ let Walter die without seeing their mission through to the end. She would venture through the Void—even battle Skorm and Avo if she had to!—just to bring him back. She _refused_ to return to Albion without Walter by her side.

The Princess paused mid-thought, staring meditatively at her gnawed on piece of fruit. The thought of returning to Albion, more specifically Bowerstone, filled her with unease. As expected, the thought of failure loomed menacingly over their heads like the executioner’s blade, but she didn’t think that was truly what had her on edge. The thought of failing and losing everyone she cared for terrified her. And, for some strange reason, the thought of failing and being forced to return to Reaver wasn’t quite as frightening as it had once been; maybe it was because she had escaped once before and maybe it was just because she knew what to expect from him, either way it was odd. However, even odder, was the fear she felt at the thought of _success_. The fact of the matter was, if they succeeded, she was going to have to kill her brother. Her breath caught in her throat and her stomach twisted painfully. Could she? Could she _really_ kill her own brother of her own free will?

Victoria tried to focus on all the bad he’d done—tried to focus on how he’d tormented his subjects and turned his back on those who needed him; on all the people who had died by his hand or his order and on all that had happened to her friends because of him. However, no matter how hard she tried to turn him into some legendary monster in her mind, good memories kept intruding upon her. And, soon enough, the good out-weighed the bad. Memories poured in like floodwater, smothering her. Logan holding her on his lap while their parents held Court. Playing chess with him and pouting when he, very _obviously_ , let her win. Dragging her brother about as she prattled on and on about some cool “new” thing she’d found on the grounds. Logan sneaking her treats when she’d been ordered to her rooms for bad behaviour. Victoria dropped her fruit. _Avo help me, I don’t think I can do it._

“Are you alright?” a mildly concerned voice from behind her asked.

“Yes,” she replied, glancing back at Page. The Princess realised she’d been crying and dried her eyes on the hem of her loose, undyed linen skirt. So much for looking strong for Page. She cleared her throat, and added, “Is something wrong?”

“The priestess is going to try to wake up Walter again.”

“Alright. I’ll be along shortly.” Victoria intended to sit there a moment and pull herself together, but she heard Page shuffle awkwardly in place and, a bit gruffer than she’d intended to, was forced to add, “Is something _else_ bothering you?”

“Yes,” Page admitted. “I have a bad feeling about this, and I don’t believe getting involved in Aurora’s problems is going to turn out well for us.”

Victoria paused, frowning at the sand. She wondered what had happened while she and Walter had been in Shadelight (or, at least she thought that’s what the Aurorans had called the temple/caves in the desert). Page was acting so strange. And it wasn’t like her to deny anyone help.

“It’s too late now,” Victoria said shortly to her, deciding to ask what happened some other time. “We’re already involved. We can’t back out now; if we did, we’d be no better than Logan.” As Page made to say more, Victoria stood up and dusted herself off. “I’m going to check on Walter.”

She left her standing there in the temple’s doorway as she traded the growing darkness for flame and stone. The temple was mostly silent, almost everyone in the building having retired to their chambers to fearfully wait out the night.

Finding Walter was easy for her by now; she barely had to pay attention to her feet to know she was going the right way, and, soon enough, she entered Walter’s room. Kalin stood off to the side as the wizened Priestess Mara knelt over the old soldier. Victoria could hear her murmuring under her breath as she made strange gestures in the air with her hands. The Princess knelt down beside her friend and mentor’s body, not quite touching him, just in case, and Nero crept over to lie beside them. _Come on, Walter. You can do it. Just wake up._

Page slowly trailed into the room, hovering almost unnoticed near the doorway as everyone else kept their eyes trained on Walter’s prostrate form. It was like waiting for a shooting star; everyone knew there was a possibility of one, it was just that no one knew _when_.

And then, mid-way through Mara’s chant, Walter’s body shuddered as though something had forcefully left it and his eyes snapped open. For a brief second, horror clouded his expression before it faded into something closer to puzzlement.

“Walter!” Victoria gasped taking his hand, barely restraining herself from throwing her arms around him. “Are you alright? How are you feeling? We thought you were dead! I was so worried about you. Are—”

Victoria said it all very quickly, earning amused smiles from the other women in the room. Walter’s body shook, and, at first, Victoria nearly panicked at the thought that he was coughing. And then Victoria realised that, no, he was actually _laughing_. With a groan he said to her, “Well, balls to you all, you’re not burying me, yet.”

Victoria beamed at him, feeling as though, now, things were going to be much better. And maybe, just maybe, they could survive this.

~ * ~

The sea was almost worryingly rough; the winds were strong and the waves were choppy, moving the ship up and down like an overly-excited child on a trampoline. Though the ship was anchored, every wave felt as if the ship were threatening to buck them off of it. Victoria clutched at the rail, trying to look thoughtful as she attempted to hide her discomfort. She’d finally decided that ships were her least favourite form of transportation. She hated the feel of rough seas and the thought of all that crushing oh-so-blue water beneath her. It was creepy.

But at least she never got seasick—that would have made the voyage unbearable.

“Are you alright?” a voice asked.

She smiled slightly at Walter. “I’m fine. I just wish people would stop asking if I am.” Victoria hesitated. “And what about you?”

“I feel about a hundred years older than when we arrived in Aurora…and we didn’t find the army we were looking for. So, naturally, I’m _great_.”

Victoria laughed, though it bordered on humourless, and glanced over at where people were beginning to gather before the ship’s wheel. There were quite a few of them, all looking entirely out of place to be in the same group. _It’s almost time_. “Walter? Before we have to go over, may I ask you something?”

Walter looked her over with paternal concern. Over the last few days, she had finally confided him everything that had happened from the time she and Ben had disappeared to when she had returned. _Everything_. And he was the only one she had entrusted with that information; it meant a lot to her that he cared and that he kept her secrets without passing judgment.

“What is it?” he asked. She could hear in his voice that he was worried for her. And she had to admit, they both knew there was nothing good waiting for them in Bowerstone.

Victoria awkwardly avoided eye contact, nervous that he would be angry with her. “What…happened…in Shadelight? You were so calm and then—I’ve _never_ seen you like that before. I was _so worried_ , and….”

Walter was quiet for a while when the Princess broke off, unable to find any sort of words that wouldn’t potentially sound rude or patronizing. She stared at her hands, her fingers fidgeting against the wooden railing before her, and wished she hadn’t said anything. _Oh, look at us: me and my big mouth._ She wondered if she would ever learn to leave well enough alone.

“I’m sorry I frightened you,” Walter said solemnly, finally breaking his silence and surprising Victoria. “Once, a long time ago, when I served under your father, I was in battle. We were outnumbered, most of my squad was dead, and we took cover in a nearby cave.” He sounded far off, lost in a memory, and he didn’t seem to notice when Victoria took his hand. “We thought they would come in after us…but they never did. They just blew the entrance and left. We spent _days_ in that cave; no food, no water, no light. Just three men, waiting to die.”

“I’m so sorry, Walter,” Victoria said softly, her heart breaking for him. She wished there was something she could say that was more meaningful than an apology and, once again, her words failed her. “Why did you never tell me?”

“I didn’t want you to worry about me,” Walter replied, his mind returning to the present. His dark eyes crinkled as he gave her a warm smile, taking her hand in both of his. “I’m just an old soldier, and _you_ have more important things to worry about than me.”

“Still….” She hugged him, feeling like a little girl. She didn’t know what to say to make it better. It was Walter’s own, personal fear, and it was impossible to just make someone give up their fear.

 _Walter is stronger for his fear_ , a familiar voice in the back of her mind murmured. _Don’t try to ‘fix’ him if he doesn’t want it._

Whether or not that was true, she wanted Walter to know that he wasn’t _just_ some soldier. He _wasn’t_ expendable and she wasn’t giving up on him any time soon. They’d survived thus far; as far as Victoria was concerned, that meant they could see everything through to the end. However, before she could give her thoughts a voice, they were called over to the wheel.

Before leaving Aurora, Victoria had arranged for a series of letters to be delivered by birds, and, much to her surprise, all of Victoria’s generals had replied to her letters. At one end of the table stood Kalin in her billowy Auroran wear, copper turret riffle in her hands, and the ancient leader of the dwellers: Sabine, his colourful gypsy-like clothing making a bold statement in the grim atmosphere and the violet pipe atop his staff smoking slightly. Page stood directly to Victoria’s left and Walter to her right. And then there was Saker…. Victoria sighed. Saker, the enormous mercenary leader whose mohawk had always given her pause, who had, upon seeing her once again, teased her for letting some Auroran children paint her tattoos orange and weave feathers and beads into her braids. He’d been the biggest surprise of all, not only for actually coming but for what he brought with him. Hence the woman standing between Saker and a soldier chosen to stand in Ben’s place as a representative of the Swift brigade; a female pirate in an extremely foreign-looking outfit and haircut. She had given no one her name when she’d arrived, but she’d brought about a dozen ships full of “help”. When Victoria asked her about it, the pirate turned to her and said, with unprecedented respect, that they had their orders. And she would not say another word on the subject.

They’d sent out several groups of rebels the previous day to keep towns further inland safe from any possible battles and to set up camp in some of the port towns along the coast to keep the navy from interfering with them. All that was left was to decide how to take Bowerstone. But now, despite how united as everyone had initially acted, everyone was standing over a map, arguing.

Victoria stared down at the map, mentally tracing the vein-like network of streets, alleys, and buildings that had been carefully etched with black ink into the parchment before her, knowing it was going to come down to her to make the final decision. Her brown eyes were trained on Bowerstone’s Old Quarter. She didn’t agree with the Dweller-Mercenary-Pirate idea of overwhelming the guards blindly with large amounts of explosions—it seemed like a good way to get everyone killed quickly. Page’s ideas were much more methodical, but they still seemed a little too over-ambitious to follow it exactly. But there was something…something no one had mentioned yet. It was so obviously perfect to her; she wondered why no one else noticed it. Trying to match her idea to her mental map of the city, she said, “I have an idea. Quiet down.”

No one heard her.

“Everyone?”

Still no reaction.

“ _SHUT UP!_ ” Everyone went quiet, and Victoria awkwardly cleared her throat before meekly saying, “Thank you.” She took a deep breath, and, before anyone could rebuke her, went on, “We’re not going to take the city by just running in and trying to overwhelm the guards; there’s too many of them.”

“Then what do you propose we do, hmm, Princess?” Sabine asked, impatient as ever.

“Send the pirates here,” Victoria said, tapping the map. “Logan should have replaced the guard in Industrial by now. A large attack on Industrial’s port will not only weaken the guard there, but draw out the guard from other parts of the city. Then the Aurorans can land _here_.” Victoria tapped the map where the Old Quarter’s small stretch of beach was marked.

“A diversion,” the soldier said thoughtfully.

“Exactly,” Victoria nodded, glad they were listening. “Once we’re in the Old Quarter, if Page’s offer to clear the guard barracks is still open, then she can take the Easterly path to them and wipe them out. Um,” she added to Page, suddenly hesitant, “you still want to do that, right?”

“I do,” Page said, grimly pleased by the thought.

“I want to be right in the middle of the smoke and the glory,” Sabine said, “if Page takes the East, it’s only fair _I_ take the West.”

Victoria nodded. “Alright, then it’s settled—”

“Hang on,” Saker growled, staring at the map, brow furrowed, as he smoked his cigar. “How are you going to get to the castle through there? There ain’t any path.”

Everyone but the Princess turned their attention back to the map.

“Yes, there is,” she said, smiling. “Through here.” She reached out and tapped lightly on a big, blank expanse at the bottom of where the castle was marked on the map.

“I don’t see it,” the soldier muttered.

Walter chuckled. “She wants to go through the cemetery,” he said, brimming with pride. Looking at Victoria, he added, “You always do things the hard way, just like your father.”

Victoria beamed at him, glad to have earned such a compliment.

“There’s nothing but cliff faces over there,” Page observed, frowning at her. “You’ll never get up them.”

“I’ve climbed worse,” Victoria said calmly and confidently, though it wasn’t completely true. “Besides, Logan won’t expect _anyone_ to come that way. I can climb up into the castle gardens, get rid of what few guards are probably stationed there, and sneak into the castle through the kitchens without raising an alarm. Problem solved?”

“Not really,” Walter said with a faint smile. “There’s still the issue of how you’re going to get _me_ up those cliffs.”

“You…?”

“You don’t really think I’ve gone this far with you to let you go face Logan on your own, do you? Besides, how will you arrest him?”

Victoria smiled in reply, grateful; with Walter there, there was less of a chance of her baulking at the last moment. She drew in a deep breath, steadying herself as she looked at everyone situated around the table. She wondered how they had come so far and where they were going next. “Are we ready, then?”

Walter put his hand out. “For Albion.”

Saker and the soldier’s hand joined his. Page’s followed, and she murmured, “For Albion.”

Then followed the pirate woman’s hand and then Kalin. The later adding, “And Aurora.”

Sabine joined in with a nod.

Victoria placed her hand atop them all. “For our home.” _And for Ben_.

It was time.

~ * ~

Arterial spray made a wide arc of liquid ruby and the body fell to the ground with a soft thud. The stretch of beach they were standing on just barely had fallen silent but for the occasional booms and bangs echoing through the rest of the city. Small fires were burning themselves out, and the corpses of dead soldiers, both Logan’s and the Resistance’s, were everywhere. The mortar that had caused most of the damage to their forces was now disabled, though, and so Victoria sheathed her blades and lit a pair of flares, which she then tossed atop a pair of blocked-off gates before them. The differently coloured flames were a sign to those aboard the ships to blast the gate they landed upon to hell.  The entire company had just enough warning to get out of the way as a cannonball careened toward the gate and, with a magnificent explosion of wood, metal, and fire, the gate burst into useless pieces. Victoria decided that, if they had made any effort to be stealthy beforehand, that explosion had ruined it. But there was no time for sarcasm and bad jokes as they entered the city.

There were explosions everywhere they turned and fires burning in many houses. People—terrified townsfolk running for their lives, dwellers, soldiers, mercenaries—were thrown together in a violent tumult that sent just as many innocents to their deaths as those fighting. And something in the back of Victoria’s mind screamed, _“This is wrong”_. But, then one of Logan’s soldier’s bullets grazed her arm, and she was forced to throw aside her feelings on the matter before diving into the fray.

There was a reason normal people didn’t fight Heroes. Any soldier that came in the way of the Princess of Albion met their end at the slash of one of her blades or under the crushing blow of her hammer. Those she chose to miss did not get a reprieve; they found themselves skewered or shot by Walter or one of the other members of the small group following Victoria.

Walter and Victoria broke away from the others, manoeuvring as best they could given the perilous conditions of falling houses and trees. Nero chased after them, slipping through the crowd with better ease than they had. Mortar and cannon fire was still prevalent through the city, their echoing booms mingling with the ever-present gunfire and screams, and, just as they were nearing the alley they’d been searching for, a house next to them exploded into a wide-spread blast of stone, wood, shingles, and glass.

“Did you see that?!” Sabine cackled excitably, appearing seemingly from out of nowhere.

Victoria was fuming. “‘See it’?! You nearly killed us!”

“And wasn’t it glorious?” the old dweller went on, enraptured by his bloodlust. “The—what? What is it, Boulder?”

Boulder, Sabine’s giant of a bodyguard, was grunting anxiously, pointing up. The other three followed his gaze and Sabine summed it up best when they realised a grenade was headed their way. “Oh, bloody hell.”

They dove out of the way, each in a different direction. The grenade struck the ground and exploded, sending a shower of dust and pebbles everywhere. When Victoria finally got up and began dusting off, Sabine and Boulder were gone.

“You don’t suppose they’re—?”

“They’re fine,” Walter assured her. “Sabine’s a tough old sod; it’ll take more than a grenade to do _him_ in.”

Victoria conceded to his point, but, before they continued on, Victoria checked on Nero. She’d had told the collie wait, hidden on the beach, but he hadn’t listened to her. With all the destruction and fighting around them, she couldn’t help but worry that he might be hurt. Besides, he hadn’t been quite right since Aurora and she didn’t want to risk anything. Luckily enough, Nero was fine and they were able to continue onwards.

Bowerstone was growing more dangerous by the second. Luckily for Victoria and Walter, Nero was able to navigate them through a somewhat safe passage of debris, and so they followed their path to Bowerstone Cemetery with relative ease. Unfortunately, when they arrived at the gate, they also found the gate locked and a small battalion of soldiers lying in wait. The soldiers were clearly waiting to be called to another part of the city, but, the second their eyes fell on Walter and Victoria, they attacked, nonetheless.

Blades clashed against blades as they fought. Victoria had to eventually use the body of a man she had just killed as a shield so she could shoot the men shooting at her. Between the few fireballs she launched at the soldier’s stock of gunpowder and Walter’s brute strength, they quickly dispatched of the guard.

Victoria rattled the wooden gate, trying and failing to force it open. “Ugh!” she groaned. “What are we going to do? Neither of us brought any explosives!”

“I thought I saw Page fighting a couple streets behind us,” Walter replied decisively. “She might have a few grenades.”

“Where’s Sabine when you need him?” Victoria muttered as they began to walk away. She wished she hadn’t blown up the gun power; they could have set up a controlled explosion to get rid of the gate.

And then, just as she was beginning to wonder if throwing a few fireballs at the gate would work, the gate exploded. Surprised, the pair turned in unison to face it as—speak of the devil—Sabine strolled out of the dust as easily as though he was walking through the park. Walter looked amused.

Victoria, however, was just puzzled. “Hang on…how did you get on the other side in the first place?”

“Dwellers have their ways, m’dear,” Sabine said mysteriously. “Now, is there anyone left to kill?”

 _He scares me sometimes_ , Victoria decided as she stared down at the tiny man. With a couple words of thanks, they parted company with Sabine and Boulder once more and entered the cemetery. Tombstones crept up along the sides of the path as they walked silently down the winding path and the skin on the back of Victoria’s neck began to crawl with unease. Victoria had the strangest feeling like…like it wasn’t going to be this easy.

Like they were nowhere near being done.

~ * ~

The gardens were as empty as Victoria had predicted they would be; which was a blessing since, seeing as the climb up had been particularly hard for Walter, she doubted either of them could fight very well in that moment.

They crept through the garden; past where the Princess had met with Elliot that last day before discovering she was a Hero, past the pond where she had thrown rocks as she’d ranted at Reaver. Past her parent’s mausoleum. This garden was full of memories, too many of them; every plant, path, bench, and fountain carried one. It was funny, she decided, how everyone thought about the beginning at the end.

They entered the kitchen, which was uncharacteristically empty. Victoria had rarely ever seen the kitchen without servants before, even in the dead of night. She supposed, however, that it was fortunate for them as she caught sight of her appearance reflected in a large pot. She had a myriad of small scrapes and cuts on her, all just visible through the film of dirt and blood coating her skin. Victoria smiled grimly, knowing her filth combined with the vibrant tangerine paint on her tattoos and the beads and feathers in her hair made her look like some sort of wild heathen. And, despite her appreciation for the look, she knew the servants would have panicked at the sight of her.

Still, Victoria couldn’t shake the odd feeling that had settled somewhere between her navel and her heart. Did her brother, maybe, know they were coming somehow? Was he waiting for them?

“We should split up,” Walter unexpectedly whispered from behind her, making the Princess jump.

“I agree,” Victoria replied. “I highly doubt he’s just going to be sitting in the throne room, waiting for us.”

They checked the ground floor of the castle, looking through each room as quickly as they could. Over an hour later, they regrouped in the entrance hall, neither of them having found anything. It was strange, _creepy_ even, because they’d seen literally _no one_ ; no servants, no guards, and certainly no Logan. _Did he evacuate the castle?_ Victoria was beginning to wonder if he hadn’t, but it did nothing to make her feel better.

“I’ll look up and to the right,” she whispered as they crept up the stairs, “if you will do the same and to the left. If we find nothing, we can meet at the top of the stairs and we’ll go into the throne room together. Does that sound alright?”

Walter made a sound of affirmation, and they proceeded onwards.

The castle was eerily silent and still as Victoria looked through rooms. The far off sound of cannon fire reminded her of celebratory fireworks. It was maddening, searching the castle rooms as she had once searched the rooms of Reaver’s home, and, as with then, finding nothing. Some cynical part of her couldn’t help but feel Logan had done this on purpose, just to spite her. It was a ridiculous notion, however, and so she cast it from her mind.

Closing yet another door, she had the unsettling feeling of eyes upon her. Victoria saw no one around her, but the feeling persisted. _Someone is here_ , she thought, suddenly regretting putting the Dragonstomper and her hammer into her endless bag of stuff before climbing up to the castle. She _could_ take the time to find them, of course, but that would take a lot of time considering all that was in there, which, in turn, could be dangerous if someone really _was_ watching her. _Pretend you don’t know they’re there_ , she thought. _And kill them if they try anything._

However, by the time she’d reached the doors near the end of the hall, her follower had _still_ not shown themselves. It wasn’t Logan, that was for sure—he’d never been very stealthy, despite his patience—and she highly doubted it was a guard—again with the lack of stealth—but the most she’d seen of them was  dark shape moving at the other end of the dimly lit hall. And so whether they were friend or foe was still unknown.

She wondered if they were just content to watch her.

Or, maybe, she just had an over-active imagination. She wished she had been able to bring Nero up the cliff with her; _he_ would have been able to tell her.

Both of these thoughts were proven to be false as she heard a heavy footstep directly behind her. She whirled, hands immediately going for her knives, just in time for a rifle butt to slam into her face.

Victoria fell to the floor, vision blurring and thoughts suddenly feeling very sluggish. She heard _something else_ fall to the floor with a gurgle and a soft thud. Someone picked her up carefully, and, as she began to drift off, she wondered _why_ people had to keep knocking her out.

~ * ~

Page struggled fiercely against the men holding her. Logan had had more soldiers than they’d expected; needless to say, she was pretty angry that their plan had failed so spectacularly. This anger was particularly evident in the fact that she had killed so many guards before they had managed to finally drive her to the ground and shackle her.

“Walter!” she called, seeing a familiar face being dragged down the hall toward her. “Imagine seeing you here. Do you think this means the plan failed?”

Walter’s chuckle at her sarcasm as they were led into the dungeon was humourless. “What happened to the others?”

The look Page shot him plainly asked how she was supposed to know. Being arrested had definitely put her in a foul mood.

One of the guards ordered them to be silent and shoved them into the dungeons. The air was freezing; damp and smelling faintly of mould and old blood. People had obviously met their death down there. Iron bars had been put in, dividing the incredibly long chamber into a series of cells, most of which were full of people they recognized from the Resistance. One cell, however, had only one occupant; though they were sitting so far back in shadow that it was impossible to make out their face. It was into that cell that Walter was shoved into as Page was forced into the empty one across from it.

“No talking!” a guard barked once he’d removed their shackles. The dungeon door slammed shut with a maddeningly final sound.

“I have to say, Walter,” came a startlingly familiar voice from the corner of Walter’s cell, “I never expected you to be my cellmate. Can I switch you with Page? Might let me cuddle her at night.”

“Ben?” Walter said slowly, peering disbelievingly through the darkness. “Ben Finn, is that you?”

“The one and only,” Ben quipped, moving into the light. His blond hair was overly long and he needed a shave, but, though he was a bit too thin and gaunt-looking, he seemed in decent enough spirits. His blue eyes looked them over carefully. “You lot look like shit. What happened?”

“We lost,” Page fumed, furious with the injustice of it all. She kicked at a bucket in her cell. “Isn’t it obvious?!”

“On second thought, Walter old buddy, maybe I _don’t_ want to be Page’s roomie. She’d be kicking _me_ next.” It was clear Ben hadn’t had anyone to talk to in a very long time and Walter was too tired to tell him to shut up. After a beat of silence, Ben added, “So…what happened to Vicky?”

Ben was the only one allowed to call Victoria “Vicky” without being physically and verbally attacked by said Princess. In response, Walter and Page exchanged silent looks. After a long moment, Walter looked away with a sigh.

“We’re not sure, Ben,” Walter said wearily, sitting down on a cot.

“What d’you mean ‘you’re not sure’? You have to know _something_ about what happened to her?” He sounded almost desperate and Walter wondered if Ben was as worried about Victoria as she was about him.

“She wasn’t brought in with us.”

“Do you think she turned us in?” Page asked Walter flatly.

Ben’s face creased with anger as he narrowed his eyes. “Vicky wouldn’t do that and you _damn well_ know it.”

“Even you have to admit, Finn, she gets out of a little too many tight spots to _not_ have outside help,” Page shot back, not backing down.

“She _is_ a _Hero_. You think _that_ might explain it?” Ben replied, laying on the sarcasm as thickly as he could manage.

“ _That’s_ your defence?!”

“Shut up, both of you, before your sexual tension calls in the guards,” Walter grumbled, frowning at his boots in contemplation. When the pair fell silent, glaring daggers at each other, Walter added, “I’m sure we’ll find out what happened to her soon enough.” Of that Walter was certain. It was unlikely that, if she’d been arrested, Logan would keep Victoria’s whereabouts to himself for long. In the event that she had escaped, he knew Victoria wouldn’t sit idly by. In the end, the only thing he could guarantee was that time would tell. But, until they knew for certain that Victoria had been caught, they had to keep her involvement as much of a secret as possible.

As Walter though, the dungeon had grown silent but for the soft sound of whispering coming from other cells. Page stopped glaring at Ben to sit down on her own cot, staring resolutely at the dungeon’s door.

Ben, however, lasted all of ten minutes before: “Anyone know any good jokes?”

“Shut up, Ben!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter needs so much work. I keep editing but it's just...eh.
> 
> (My cat's much better now, btw. He sends his love.)


	21. The One With the Truth

  _Icy black liquid quickly filled the room. It was thicker than syrup, but it spread faster than any liquid she had seen before. The liquid had already reached her waist and she began to panic. She splashed around the tiny room, looking for something—anything!—to hop onto to get her to higher ground. There was nothing. The liquid was up to the middle of her chest now. There weren’t any windows or doors to get out through. Why couldn’t she get out?! She felt the liquid blackness close in around her throat like a pair of massive choking hands._

_“Are you blind yet?!” a voice cackled and taunted from all around her. And then she went under._

Victoria slowly awakened only to find herself staring at an uneven, slightly mossy stone wall. The smell of seawater kept in an enclosed space for too long hit her hard, making her head ache and her stomach turn. She moved as if to get up and froze as she heard a soft rustle of fabric.

“Oh, _look_ , boy,” a cynically amused voice drawled. “I do believe she is _finally_ waking up.”

 _I know that voice_ , she thought, now completely and utterly awake. Victoria bolted upright on the tiny cot she’d been placed upon. Still sitting, she whirled to face the bars separating her from the rest of the room. “ _You!_ ”

“Are we on the subject of me, already?” Reaver quipped, twirling his walking stick thoughtfully. Victoria noticed that, for some reason and some _how_ , Nero was seated obediently at Reaver’s feet as though they had been friends for years. “As I’m certain you recall, I _am_ my favourite subject.”

“You’d better be thankful these bars are between us, or I might _castrate_ you!” the Princess snarled.

“And why would you _ever_ consider doing _that?_ ”

“ _You_ were the one following me in the castle; I should have known! _You_ knocked me out!”

“I did no such thing,” Reaver replied smoothly; something in his tone suggesting he was mentally shaking his head at her. “Rightly accusing me of following you is one thing, but insisting I _harmed you_ is more preposterous than that _ridiculous_ ensemble you’re currently wearing. _Really_ , you mustn’t jump to conclusions so quickly, Princess. After all, why would I want to drag around an unconscious girl when a _conscious_ one is so much more fun, hmm?”

“Good question,” Victoria snapped, her temper growing short. “And why _did_ you ‘drag me around’?”

“You have something of mine; _I want it back_.”

Victoria’s heart sank; her anger fading to be replaced by slight fear and discomfort. She had almost forgotten that the Dragonstomper .48 was Reaver’s. Well, that explained a lot. _I’m such a fool sometimes_. “Well, it’s not like I have it on me right now, is it?”

She thought she had a very good point, considering she was stripped of weapons, and hoped that was enough to earn her a ticket out of her cage. Apparently, she wasn’t clever enough for the smile he offered her was cold, calculating, and utterly absent of affection.

“Hmm, no…it’s in _here_ , isn’t it?” he replied, a sly, scheming look in his midnight eyes as he picked up her father’s bag. He studied the bag for a second before tossing it to her through the bars; it landed on the cot’s thin, half-rotted mattress with a muffled _thump_.

Victoria slowly picked it up, looking at the brown leather uncomfortably. Though Reaver had given her no instruction, she knew what he was aiming for. It was a lesson in submission; she had to give in and get it for him. Of course, she could take the gun out and shoot him or even just toss the bag back to him and tell him to get his damn gun himself, but then, she knew, she would be stuck in this cell for a _very_ long time. If she could say _anything_ for Reaver…he _certainly_ knew how to teach lessons.

Even slower than she had been about opening the bag, she found the Dragonstomper—not where it was meant to be, of course—and approached the slightly rusty bars. With the caution of one approaching a wild animal, Victoria extended the gun, handle first, to him. Reaver took it from her and holstered it with the care of a loving father.

 _Some people like their guns a little_ too _much_ , she thought, unsure whether she ought to be relieved or not that he no longer seemed angry with her. “Are you going to let me out of here now?”

“Of course,” Reaver drawled slowly, almost mockingly, though he was much quicker to sort through a ring of keys.

“How did you know I would be at the castle?” Victoria added once the door was unlocked and she was free. Immediately, she knelt down and gave Nero a much-deserved hug and some affectionate pats. Poor dog, having to deal with Reaver while she was unconscious. That must have been awful, given they’d never appeared to get along before.

“I thought you would be far more inclined to return to where your brother was dwelling than to abscond deeper into Bowerstone and face persecution at the hands of Logan’s minions,” came his, strangely cheerful, reply. As Victoria continued to shower her beloved collie with affection, Reaver added, “Though, I must admit, it was really only too easy to keep an eye on you once you’d returned to the city to make sure you didn’t… _wander_. You might consider putting _this_ on.”

At that last sentence, he tossed over a long, thick black cloak. Once she’d finished securing her bag to her waist, she slipped into the length of dark fabric. Reaver’s scent filled her. She let her eyes close, relaxing as she breathed it in. She welcomed the comfort the familiarity brought her. _What am I doing?_ Victoria quickly opened her eyes, coming to her senses and forcing herself not to fling the cloak away. Her relief had never been as great as when she discovered Reaver hadn’t been watching her. _Speaking of not noticing things…where am I?_

The room they occupied was low-ceilinged and long. The cell she had vacated wasn’t the only one in the room, judging by what little she could see in the guttering light of a couple old, soot-clouded lanterns, but it was certainly the most liveable cell. The stone walls were mossy and slightly bloodstained. Thick cobwebs hung from the ceiling at the room’s corners, and Victoria thought she heard the scuttling of roaches and mice. She was unsure if the floor was earthen or just _that_ dirty. And _the smell_ …she’d thought it was bad when she’d woken up, but that was an understatement—she began wondering if the cells shared a wall with the sewers.

“Reaver? Where are we?”

He quickly glanced around, almost as though he was attempting to remember where he was, as he began to lead them to the door out. “This _charming_ little _hole_ just so happens to be a gangster’s prison—one of Bowerstone’s _nastier_ secrets, unfortunately.”

“I…take it you don’t mean a prison where the Royal Army puts gang members.”

“Not quite, my dear Princess, though I am sure more than a couple have found their way down here,” he smirked as he held the door open for her, but he sobered quickly. “Your oh-so-intelligent brother enforced a curfew on the streets; we’ll need to hurry.”

“I don’t understand,” Victoria hissed as they raced up a nearby flight of stairs and into the cool night air, “why are you trying to make sure I’m not seen if Logan already knows I’m involved?”

A carriage was parked nearby, and, unlike when Reaver had brought her to his mansion the first time, _this_ carriage bore his trademark double “R” symbol. She wondered if it was a warning to the guards to not stop the carriage or if it was a declaration of not caring what their rules were. She had a feeling it was a little bit of both. The night-black horses hitched to it tossed their heads and shifted on their hooves, anxious as if they sensed some feeling in the air that Victoria couldn’t pick up on. It made her feel slightly paranoid. All around them, the streets were utterly still and utterly silent as though nothing in the city existed but them.

Reaver ushered her and Nero inside and gestured to the driver to hurry up and go as he too climbed into the carriage. Once the door was closed behind him, he—with an innocence no one could have ever possibly believed—said, “I _might_ have forgotten to mention to your brother that you had gallivanted off.”

Disbelief crashed through her and Victoria had the odd urge to laugh as she scratched Nero’s ears. “You didn’t tell him?”

“Hmm, no…I could never think of a good time to bring it up. You know how these things are, Princess; everyone is always so worried about their own problems, they forget others have the solution,” he replied, not bothering to hide his sarcasm.

 _Like you?_ Victoria thought, not daring to say it. Because, while Reaver seemed incapable of asking for help, she knew she was just as incapable…only she seemed to have worse results when things took a turn for the worse.

The carriage rattled along through Bowerstone Market, leaving them in silence for a long moment before, almost thoughtfully, Reaver added, “You might want to consider writing him somewhat soon.”

Victoria, whose thoughts had turned to wondering if her friends were alright and what had happened, looked at him in confusion. “Why?” When Reaver didn’t reply, she added more forcefully and with a touch of frustration, “What aren’t you telling me?”

She’d always known Reaver had…little ticks—tells to show what he was really thinking at any given moment—but it had taken her a long time to get used to the few she knew.  When he leaned on something, keeping it between himself and the other person—like his walking stick, for instance—or when he got annoyingly close to someone, she’d noticed he was usually defensive. His flirtation seemed to mask his uncertainty with a situation, while, in a strictly conversational setting, he either avoided the question or talked you in circles until you agreed with him because it was simply easier to agree than to figure out what the _hell_ he’d just said.

That said, he didn’t try to hide that it was against his better judgment when he tossed over a newspaper to her.

Victoria caught it before it could hit Nero, and quickly unrolled it. The edition of the Bowerstone Times was emblazoned with the title “Respected Member of Militia Arrested for Aiding Insane Revolutionary in Failed Coup against King”. Fear twisted her gut and brought a tremor to her hands as reality finally began to sink in. The paper was dated the day _after_ their attempted assault on Bowerstone, which meant…. “Reaver, turn the carriage around!”

He didn’t move; he just watched her with intrigue as if she were some dramatic play that was about to kill off one of her main characters.

“You have to turn us around! He’ll kill them! I can’t just let them die!”

“You can’t _really_ believe that.”

“Y— _what?_ ”

Reaver gave her a long look that seemed to pierce her to the core and command her to be calm. “Employ a little common sense, Princess. That article is two days old. If Logan had wanted to kill them, I would have handed you an article about an execution, _not_ an arrest.” The Princess began to protest, and he added sharply, “ _Victoria!_ If I had known you were going to react like this, I wouldn’t have told you at all. Now, _relax_. Obviously, Logan is attempting to lord the matter over you and ensure your continued compliance, so you’ve nothing to worry about. _Honestly_ , sometimes I do think you whine more than the mutt.”

The Princess wasn’t listening. Though the sound of her name had grounded her somewhat and was, to a point, keeping her from over-reacting and leaping from the carriage to find her brother, she couldn’t keep calm. Guilt coursed through her body, weighing heavy on her as her mind brought forth a bevy of images of all that could be happening to her friends at that moment. Her heart thudded heavily in her chest, responding to her sudden fear, and her lungs struggled for a proper breath. Victoria felt as though she might be sick. She hated to admit that Reaver had a point, but…but what if he was wrong? She put her head in her hands and tried not to scream.

“Alright,” she replied after several more quiet minutes had gone by, her voice slightly muffled. She slowly drew her head up to stare at him with desolate but determined eyes. “But, if I see or hear even the slightest hint that Logan means to harm them, there will be _nothing_ you can do and _no way_ that you will _ever_ be able to stop me from going. I can’t let them suffer for me, anymore, Reaver. Not after Aurora.”

She didn’t bother attempting to hide the threat. Whatever lingering fear she had directed towards him was minute now. She was stronger and more aware of her power than ever before and she was confident that she could handle anything he could attempt to do to her. After all…he’d already killed her once before.

“Oh _, very well_ ,” he replied dryly, clearly not bothered by her as he waved her off. Something in his tone and expression suggested that he _really_ wanted to roll his eyes at her. “I will concede to your logic…if only you’ll tell me _why_ the so-called dead land of Aurora suddenly has you in such a state.”

“Worried about me?” she teased, trying to draw his attention away from the subject.

“Call it curiosity.”

The Princess hesitated. On one hand, she didn’t want to talk about what had happened in Aurora. Not _ever_ again. But, on the other hand, she was _worried_ for Albion. The problem was, with Walter and the other Resistance leaders imprisoned, she had no one to confide in or plan with; no one to share her fears with. She could no longer put any trust in the consenting-to-the-marriage plan and she knew that whatever chance there had been of Logan releasing Ben before was now reduced to zero with the others in custody. Victoria needed to choose whether to keep playing passively or to take a more active stance. Either way, she wasn’t going to make any progress on her own. Perhaps it was time to see just how far she could really trust Reaver. “Make sure your window is closed, I’ve got something important to tell you.”

Over the next hour or so, as they moved out of Bowerstone and towards Millfields, she quietly detailed what had happened in Aurora; starting with their crash-landing near Shadelight and ending with an extremely abbreviated and undetailed description of her hallucination, as well as her awakening within the Auroran temple. She failed to mention very much of his role in her hallucination apart from him killing her—she decided to let him think on that for a while. Reaver listened quite intently, though he couldn’t seem to refrain from adding little japes and jibes between Victoria’s sentences whenever she came to an exceptionally serious part of the tale, lightening both the mood and, however marginally, Victoria’s mind. But those jokes and smart-ass comments never really gave her an idea what he might have been thinking. It was so like him, Victoria concluded, that he could listen to her speak for so long and still not grant her an actual opinion on the matter.

“And here I thought you’d simply found the books,” he muttered when she finally trailed into silence. As Victoria wondered precisely what books he was talking about, Reaver added, “I’m afraid I’m _still_ not certain about _what_ you are trying to insinuate. Not that I really care, but for the sake of continuing along your train of thought, did it _actually_ say it was a threat to Albion?”

“Yes,” Victoria said for what felt like the umpteenth time. She wasn’t sure what she was saying that wasn’t getting through to him…unless he was actually trying to hint at asking something she herself couldn’t make sense of. “It said it was going to come for Logan, for ‘the crown’. And that it would cover the land in darkness. It said it had been waiting a long time to do it, too. And, as far as I know, Logan’s known about this for a while and he’s still done _nothing_ to fight it.

“I don’t know what to do,” she went on, uncomfortable with the admission and with all that this could mean. “I really don’t. I need to talk to Logan about this situation, but _something_ tells me he won’t be the most enthusiastic about the subject. Besides, admitting that I know about the Crawler would just raise more questions and possibly endanger… _others_. I just don’t know who else who would even know about this or would have the slightest idea for what to do about it.” She dropped her gaze to the guild seal in her hands—she’d removed it from her belt whilst talking in hopes that it would give her a sense of security and confidence, but…it wasn’t working. An idea sparked slightly in the back of her mind and suddenly she had the terrible feeling of memory and logic colliding into a flash of painful realisation. _‘Did the blind seer never tell you about us?’_ Her stomach dropped out, annoyance and hurt flashing across her scarred face as her skin crawled and her blood grew cold. “Of course _she_ would know.”

She could immediately see that she had lost Reaver at that, but it didn’t matter. At that precise moment, almost as if in response to her words, Victoria’s guild seal began glowing with a strange, arcane blue-white light that first resembled foxfire before growing to a painful brightness more akin to lightning. For a very short second, Victoria was incredibly pleased. Theresa was the only one who could force such a reaction from the seal and, after being relatively ignored by the seeress for almost a year, it was a relief to think she might finally be getting some answers to the problems that were so thoroughly frustrating her. But then she glanced up at Reaver, curious to see how he would react to the guild seal’s behaviour, and felt confusion wash through her. Though it wasn’t quite as bright, the very same glow the seal emanated had formed around Reaver, though its place of origin was almost impossible to find. _What does this mean?_ Victoria wondered. _Does Theresa need to speak with him, as well, or—_

Noting the way Victoria was staring at him, Reaver fixed her an odd, perplexed look and began, “ _What_ are you—”

Before he could finish his sentence, the interior of the carriage was flooded with bright light…and then they were gone.

~ * ~

Victoria had never, in all of her times travelling via guild seal, had a single pleasant experience with being pulled into travel when she was not the one initiating it. Her body always went stiff in an attempt to resist it and she felt almost as though she were falling off a cliff. Needless to say, the landing was extremely unpleasant.

Victoria hit the grassy ground hard, landing on her stomach. _Ow…let’s not do_ that _again_. She coughed as she tried and failed to get her hair out of her face. What she could see of the world before her was starkly white and absent of any trace of colour. The grass rustled without a breeze and the water just off the sides of the path rippled languidly though it held nothing capable of producing such movement; it was as though someone had taken a chunk of Albion and drained it of its colour and life until all that remained was a blank, white imitation of the world. Strangely enough, it wasn’t foreboding, just extraordinarily surreal. Everywhere one could look, the ever-present mist clinging to the ground still swirled and crept about like the real thing.

As she tried to convince herself to get up, Victoria heard a masculine groan—a groan that was more annoyed than pained—from beside her and she peered out from behind her veil of braids to see that Reaver had had the misfortune to land on his back beside her.

“Well, wasn’t that _fun?_ ” Reaver muttered sarcastically as he sat up, his dark hair falling into his eyes.

“Oh, _loads,_ ” Victoria groaned, getting to her, slightly wobbly, feet.

“Welcome, Heroes,” a serene yet sharp voice stated from somewhere behind Victoria.

Reaver glanced over while he pushed his hair back into its usual position; he snorted as though displeased and rolled his eyes. Victoria thought his expression was more fitting of a child being pulled away from their favourite game than that of an infamous pirate-turned-industrialist who was facing the very likely possibility of being crowned Prince of Albion.

With a sigh, Victoria forced herself to gather her wits and turned to face Theresa. Hooded and cloaked in red and white, the seer looked mysterious and not entirely welcoming. She shuffled back and forth on her bare feet, only the tips of her toes showing beneath the hem of her skirt. Her hands were clasped almost politely before her, and, though her expression was as calm as ever, something about her seemed mischievous. Theresa _always_ seemed mischievous.

“You lied to me,” Victoria blurted before she could stop herself. Everything was beginning to click together now, even though she’d not heard Logan’s side of the matter. Logan had never been the real villain nor had freeing Albion been intended target of their quest; it had been fighting the Crawler all along. Theresa had known about it—which meant Logan had to have known as well—and so…did that mean their entire revolution had been nothing but a farce? Had she been fighting another person’s battles and unwittingly parroting views that had never belonged to her simply because they _seemed_ to be true and good? Had her entire tenure as a Hero—all the good she’d done, all the ill she’d wrought, all the lives she’d impacted—been a lie?

“No. I told you nothing but the truth,” Theresa rebuked. Her voice was steadfast and firm, as though she were attempting to dissuade even the _idea_ that she might have lied. “Albion _will_ fall if left under your brother’s reign. Only with a Hero on the throne will Albion be strong enough to survive the Crawler’s threat. So, you see, what I told you _is_ the truth…from a certain point of view.”

“ _A certain point of view?!_ ” Victoria echoed disbelievingly. Though she had never considered herself to be close to Theresa before, she still felt a sting of betrayal, as though she’d been used. Anger flared up defensively in its place and she added sharply: “And what would you have done if I had accidentally _killed_ him before learning the truth?”

Theresa’s ability to separate all traces of emotion from her work had never hurt Victoria more than the bluntness in her tone did at that moment. “Princess, you will find that, in life, many of the truths we hold near to us are only true from a certain point of view. Logan’s death would have been an unfortunate, but necessary, loss if it got you to where you need to go.”

“So we should just kill anyone who gets in our way and damn the consequences?” Victoria spat. “If only because it doesn’t matter what happens except that it gets to the ending _you_ planned out.”

“Do not misinterpret my words, Hero—”

“There’s nothing to ‘misinterpret’, Theresa, you’ve made your position as plain as day.”

“As much as I _love_ a good philosophical debate,” Reaver interrupted, dusting off his white trousers, “if there is _nothing_ you can think to use me for, I believe I’ll just… _go_.”

If Theresa had had eyes, Victoria had a feeling that the look she would have thrown Reaver would have been scathing.

“You will remain, Reaver,” the seeress intoned, disapproval rolling off her in waves. “You were summoned here to listen, not to speak; I am hoping it will provide sufficient practice, for you, in thinking before you talk.”

Reaver returned her frown with an expression that was somewhere between a frown of repressed loathing and a taunting dare, but he flexed his hands as though he were anxious to wrap them around Theresa’s throat. Instead, he rolled his eyes and turned away from both women as though ignoring them would somehow transport him back into his carriage.

 _You two really don’t like each other, do you?_ Victoria thought, momentarily taken aback. _But how do you know each other?_ The question reminded her of the threat the Crawler posed and she dragged her thoughts away from her anger at Theresa and her curiosity over the Seeress and Reaver’s previous dealings and she attempted to get to the real issue. “Theresa…the Crawler is planning to make good on his threat to attack Albion, isn’t he?”

Theresa paused for the briefest of seconds. “Yes, it will make an attempt.”

“Then how do I _stop_ him?”

“You cannot stop it.” Theresa’s voice was blunt, unsympathetic. She must have known that her words had disturbed the Princess, but she went on nonetheless. “The Crawler will arrive in Albion regardless, and the only thing you can do now is prepare for it.”

“And _how_ , exactly, am I supposed to do that?” Victoria enquired, barely managing to rein in her frustration.

“You already possess an army, scattered though it is. However, you have very little time and there is scarcely much else you can do but wait and attack when the time is right.” Victoria stared, disappointed, at her, and Theresa added in a slightly less cold tone, “The future is always in motion, Princess. Logan threw what little I can see out of balance by intertwining yours and Reaver’s fates as they were never intended to be. It was an option I never could have foreseen, unbalancing both of your destinies. I hope, with two Heroes, we—”

Victoria’s attempt at remaining on track abruptly failed. “Wait a minute…‘ _two_ Heroes’? What are you talking about? I was under the impression that _I_ was the only Hero left in Albion.”

Theresa paused once more. “There are… _others_ —some whom have played their part already and some who are oblivious to either their own unique talents or to the ways in which they could aid you. However…there _is_ only _one_ other who is close enough to you to be of any use.”

Victoria had just begun a mental rant about how it was going to be impossible to scout Albion for other Heroes when something about Theresa’s words drew her up short. _“Only one that’s close enough to be of any use?”_ Expression growing blank with realisation, Victoria slowly turned to look at Reaver.

The deviant was far from paying attention, having instead chosen to peer intently around the fog-shrouded world around them as if he were studying some strange painting. As if sensing their attentions were finally upon him, Reaver turned toward them. He cocked a dark eyebrow, affecting immense boredom without needing to do much of anything else. “What? Have you suddenly developed an actual _need_ for me, or is my attention still optional?”

“You—you mean _him?_ ” Denial and disbelief had finally caught up with her surprise, clashing together in a frustrating wave of emotion. Pointing at Reaver as if he was a misbehaving child, she turned back to Theresa. “ _He’s_ a _Hero?_ ”

“Always that tone of surprise,” he muttered dryly when Theresa said nothing. Somehow he refrained from flinching as Victoria turned on him.

_“You’re a Hero?!”_

Despite the growing irritation in her tone, Reaver appeared disinterested and took to fiddling fastidiously with his gloves as he replied, “Not in the strictest sense, you can be sure.”

“Enough,” Theresa told them as Victoria began to re-repeat her previous question. “With two Heroes involved, there is hope that Albion _will_ survive with Logan on the throne. But time is beginning to run short.”

Victoria shot Reaver a glare. She couldn’t believe Reaver had kept that from her this entire time—actually, when she considered how much of a pain in the ass he was, she could. _We are_ so _going to have a discussion about this later_. With an annoyed sigh, she turned back to Theresa and tried to focus. “How long do we have?”

“The Crawler will descend upon you in three months.”

Victoria’s heart dropped down into her stomach.

“Could you have, just maybe, told me about this last year?” How, by every god above and below, were they supposed to prepare Albion for an invasion in three months?

Reaver must have been paying more attention than Victoria had given him credit for, for he was staring at Theresa with an expression that clearly said she was mad and in need of slaying.

Theresa apparently had no more advice to give and, instead, simply gave them an enigmatic smile. “Good luck, Heroes.”

Before either Victoria or Reaver could protest, Victoria had the jarring sensation of being dragged bodily through time and space before the pair found themselves back in the carriage.

Victoria’s head ached, throbbing in time with her pulse. She picked herself up from where she’d fallen over into Reaver’s lap and sat down properly beside him. Nero watched them from the other side of the carriage as if they were ruining his nap. _Three months_. And the wedding was in a little over two. How were they supposed to prevent both? In a way, she couldn’t help but blame herself. She’d left Albion in late winter and had only returned in the summer. If only she hadn’t been gone so long…if only she’d insisted the preparations for the battle had gone faster…maybe they’d have a little more time now. But she knew it wouldn’t have mattered. The only difference would have been that Walter might not have survived the Crawler’s assault. _How am I going to do all this?_

Reaver, however, didn’t have quite the same concerns as Victoria. It took him a second, but, when he’d finally finished settling himself in—quite fussily, Victoria thought—he huffed irritably, and told her, “I _loathe_ that woman.”

“She’s…a hard one to figure out,” Victoria replied softly, unsure if she agreed or not. Theresa confused her too much, and she only just realised how tired she was; tired enough to lie down and never wake up. It had been such a long night, just another one of many. Victoria decided that, before she wrote to tell off Logan and before she began planning for either of the coming apocalypses, she was going to sleep for a day. How that would be nice….

They sat in relative silence and Victoria simply stared out her window at the pitch blackness beyond the glass. There were things she needed to say—things she wanted to know and make known—but she let them slip away into that realm of things untold and continued to preserve the silence. _Pull yourself together, Rochester,_ she scolded herself. _Try and get a plan together. There’s no time to waste._

From across the carriage, Nero thumped his tail against the bench once and laid his shaggy head back onto his paws as though he knew it was going to be a long trip.

~ * ~

By the time the sun had started to peek over the horizon, Reaver had already begun scribbling away at his latest journal entry. At first he’d been hesitant to do so—the thought of Victoria attempting to read over his shoulder vexed him immensely—but, as time went on and the Princess kept to her side of the bench, he slowly felt more comfortable about penning his thoughts.

Theresa’s declaration had put him on edge more than he cared to admit. He could see it all now: what had sparked every occurrence around him that had led to this point and where it was going—what was going to be asked of him before this was over. He was going to be asked to take a side soon, and he was going to have to decide whether he was willing to remain in Albion or if it would be more beneficial to wait the coming danger out… _elsewhere_. It wasn’t a matter of cowardice—he was perfectly confident that he could defeat _any_ beastie that tried to attack him—but of personal principle. He was _not_ a Hero, not in the way Victoria was at least, and he had no desire to be involved in some fool’s crusade. …but was it too late to decide? Had Theresa waited so long to warn them about the Crawler to eliminate any possibility of them leaving Albion to its own fate? That sounded like something that blind hag would do.

Reaver paused, tapping a finger against his pen contemplatively. He supposed it wasn’t truly too late. He could go and leave Victoria to deal with the Crawler (he knew better than to think she would go with him) and return once everything had been dealt with. Of course, the thrice-damned wedding still had to be dealt with. Reaver sighed in annoyance and froze as a light weight fell against his shoulder and left arm. He turned to frown at Victoria only to find his protest died in his throat as he realised she was asleep.

He wanted to push her away—she was dirty and bloodstained and there was no possible way that she wasn’t going to utterly _ruin_ his suit—but, for some inane, unfathomable reason, he couldn’t. He watched her warily out of the corner of his eye as though she were some sort of venomous serpent while he attempted to find something to blame for his sudden lack of ability to do more than sit there. Perhaps it was due to the fact that, despite spending three days in a cell beneath Bowerstone, she still smelled strongly enough of incense and perfume to give him a head rush…or, perhaps, Victoria was indeed an enchantress that delighted in muddling his mind; he truly didn’t know.

Resigning himself, he reached over to brush the hair from her face. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad having her back after all.

~ * ~

The sun was riding high in the sky and Reaver’s pocket watch declared that it was nearing two in the afternoon when they finally turned up the long front drive to his mansion. Victoria had awoken about half an hour previously; though that was more of Reaver’s fault than Victoria’s own desire to get up for he’d “ _accidentally”_ elbowed her as he leaned forward to get the paper from Nero before it was completely shredded.

The Princess yawned and peered sleepily out of the carriage windows, feeling a spark of recognition flicker through her at every familiar landmark. _I know those trees…oh,_ that _damned gate_. She yawned once more and rubbed at her eyes as they finally began to slow before the front door. “By the way, Reaver.”

Reaver looked up from where he was getting his things, which had mysteriously spread out, back together. Hat…coat…walking stick; no, he definitely couldn’t forget that one, could he? “Hmm?”

“There’s something you never really answered, earlier,” Victoria went on, gesturing for Nero to hop down from the bench. “Are you _really_ a Hero? You certainly don’t _act_ like one.”

Reaver gave her a lazy, slightly seductive smile. “Would you like to find out?”

She gave him a coy, innocent look as she let Nero out of the carriage before the driver could open the door. Biting her lip coquettishly, she beckoned Reaver to follow her out. And, when he moved to do so, Victoria slammed the door in his face with a laugh.

Victoria smirked and, heading toward the front door of the mansion with Nero trotting loyally behind her, chuckled under her breath to herself, “That’ll teach him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Asking if Reaver's a Hero is like asking about the state of the world. The answer is obvious, but no one wants to admit it. :/ (This might also apply to me posting on time....)
> 
> Sorry for the late update. Been sick and, when not sick, busy...which inevitably leads to me being sick again. Health problems...yay.


	22. Sparrow's Secret Plan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Important note: you'll probably not see me til December because next month is NaNo. If you happen to see me next month, I give all of you permission to check Tumblr, see if I've completed my words for the month and, if I haven't, yell at me to finish my words before posting. In fact, I encourage it. I'm so behind on everything....

_Bowerstone castle was cold—in fact, it always_ had _seemed cold to him. The heels of his boots clicked almost merrily across the floor as he walked the endless halls. Servants bowed and curtsied in a nervous mimicry of respect before they hurried, frightened, out of his way. The castle was extravagant, yes—paintings, tapestries, sculptures, and carvings, all of the highest calibre, were ever-present among the sturdy, luxurious furniture—but not as much as one would have thought and the King was known to be more than proud to keep it that way._

_But on this night the Hero King was nowhere to be found, and so the visitor was forced to carry on through the halls._

_Most would have expected a King to be asleep, seeing as it was so late at night, but he knew better; the King was known to be a chronic insomniac and meetings with him were also known to happen at the most random of times. And so he followed the halls up to a large study; and, as he had thought, it was there that he found the King._

_Sparrow lay curled up in a cat-like ball on one of the cushiony armchairs. He cradled an over-sized, steaming mug of something in his bare hands as he stared blankly at the portrait of a young girl with russet-coloured pigtails amidst a field of flowers—a girl that bore a strange resemblance to Sparrow._

_“So_ this _is why you never met with me,” Reaver said coolly. “You’re_ still _sulking.”_

_Sparrow didn’t look away from the painting. “I knew you’d come lookin’ for me eventually.”_

_“That’s not the_ point _, Sparrow dear. The_ point _is that you told me you had an important business proposition for me, only to renege on your end of the bargain. I expect answers.”_

_“Jealous, Reaver?”_

_“Hardly.”_

_Sparrow looked directly at him for the first time in the entire conversation. Weariness clung to his features like a mask and dark, dark bags hung under his eyes. His dark hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail and was only just starting to grey. It took a moment before his serious composure cracked into his usual devil-may-care grin. “What? Like you never skipped out on an appointment before. I mean, bloody_ hell, _I thought you were channelling my mum for a second there.” He took a sip from his mug. “’Sides, it’ safer to talk here, anyway. There’s less people snooping around.”_

 _“Safer? My, and you say_ I _am paranoid.”_

 _“You_ are _paranoid,” the Hero King observed affectionately. He uncoiled himself from his armchair and set his mug down on the table beside him. Sparrow stretched, wiggling his bare toes experimentally against the plush rug. Noting his friend’s growing impatience, he sighed and nodded for Reaver to follow him over to his desk. “I’ve been doing some thinking.”_

_“Should I be worried or relieved?” Reaver enquired dryly. His impatience was beginning to show through._

_See, Sparrow could be a little_ too _generous at times, and, as thanks for helping him with the Spire, he had offered Reaver and the other two Heroes something,_ anything _, as a gift. Reaver had heard that the other two’s wishes—wishes they didn’t even_ want _—had been easily fulfilled, but Sparrow had told him that his request was…_ problematic _, at best._

_Sparrow looked through a drawer in his desk before pulling out a sheaf of paper. “As it stands, even if I admitted you into my court, the others will never accept your opinion because you’re not of a noble family. Which is the problem.”_

_“Forgive me for being blunt, but you_ have _told me this before.” Reaver couldn’t keep himself from getting a little testy. This cryptic stuff never sat well with him and it didn’t help his mood that he had left two very volatile women alone back in his new mansion; he hoped it was still standing when he returned._

 _“Will you_ stop _interrupting me?” Sparrow grumbled._

_Reaver simply raised an eyebrow at him. Had they been standing beside each other, the pirate probably would have smacked him on the back of his head; luckily, there was a heavy desk between them and so Sparrow’s head remained relatively unscathed for the moment._

_“I think I’ve come up with a way to fool the nobles into letting you in and, therefore, letting me let you into the court…you’re going to hate it,” Sparrow told him with an innocent grin as he pushed the papers over._

_The deviant read over the papers, feeling a bit perplexed. What, by the gods, was Sparrow up to? “Oh, Sparrow, dear? You_ do _realise_ this _is a_ marriage contract _, don’t you?”_

 _“Well,_ yeah _. I wrote it.”_

 _“And_ why _would I want to marry”—he quickly consulted the page before him— “_ any _of your non-existent children? I_ have _tried the marriage deal before and it’s never worked.”_

 _Sparrow quickly shook his head. “You misunderstand. I_ don’t _want you to marry any of my future children; actually, I’d be happier if you stayed_ away _from him…or her…or them….” He paused a moment, as if considering something. He shook his head. “Moving on. It’s not a_ real _contract, anyway; doesn’t even have my seal on it_. But.  _We both sign it, you become a potential member of the royal family so no one can complain too much, contract gets ‘lost’ or ‘forgotten’ about and problem solved. It’s a win-win situation any way you toss it.”_

 _For a very long moment, Reaver just stared at him. That was it. Sparrow was mad; totally, utterly mad. So what did that make Reaver if a part of him could_ actually _see it working? “You…_ do _realise just how many ways this could end poorly, don’t you? This could potentially end worse than that party where Sophie and Alex took a romp right through a window—the blood never_ did _seem to completely wash away.”_

 _Sparrow winced in memory of the fiasco he still, to that day, believed was entirely Reaver’s fault. “You’ll just have to trust me,” the younger man bid as he watched his friend. “I_ want _you in my court…for selfish, paranoid reasons, but you_ know _I would never set you up on purpose.”_

_That was part of the problem, though. Sparrow always meant well, and yet his plans always seemed to turn on their heads to end in screaming and stolen pie._

_Reaver sighed, attempting to sound annoyed and not quite managing it, and rolled his eyes. “I’ll require some manner of pen, don’t you think?”_

_“You’ll sign it?” He had brightened considerably._

_“If only to convince you to stop pouting.” As he pulled the papers over to sign, he muttered under his breath, “Why do I feel I’ll regret this?”_

_“You worry too much.”_

_And, with a flourish, Reaver commenced signing._

~ * ~

The Princess was asleep, nude and twisted in the crimson sheets. In the darkness she was pale, eerily illuminated by the soft blue glow of her tattoos. He watched her shamelessly from where he sat on the side of the bed. Her muscles flexed, straining against some invisible force, and she whimpered low in her throat. Her head thrashed from side to side in some futile attempt to rid herself of the phantasms that plagued her. And, though he knew she was caught in a nightmare, he couldn’t even _force_ himself to rustle up any pity for her. After all, he’d woken up from his own nightmares only an hour or so before and, for a split second in the midst of his panic, the girl had looked like…like…like _Her_.

She had always reminded him of _Her_.

And how he loathed her for it.

Even at that moment, the desire to punish her for it was too strong. His long fingers twitched against the sheets, longing to wrap themselves around her neck. There was no need to wake her, he would do it while she slept; she would struggle, yes—perhaps even awaken as her lungs struggled for breath—but then she would slip into Death’s embrace and he would be free of her. Or, maybe, he would use a knife and carve her heart the way she continued to carve into his. He paused in his thoughts, his mind’s eye revelling at the mental image of blood pouring forth from a limp body that was slowly growing as cold and grey as marble in some semblance of poetic irony. His heart picked up for a beat and he found himself subconsciously beginning to lean forward, barely able to restrain himself. No, if he killed her she would not die quickly. He would take his time, extract _every last scream_ from her, and only when she could no longer _beg_ for death would he _finally_ do it.

Oh, how that vengeance would be sweet.

Part of him cried out in horror at the thought.

Because he was tainted and twisted and, he knew, nothing so beautifully pure would _ever_ give themselves to him freely. After all, he had always collected things, and something like this, something so highly coveted by so many, was impossible to collect.

 _Ah, ma sirène, la façon dont vous me tourmenter_. And it _was_ torment. It haunted his dreams. Dreams, nightmares in particular, were the real evil in the world, he thought. They were more fickle and more dangerous than he could ever be. They were the Inferno in the guise of Elysian; the Void pretending it was a loving embrace. And oh, how he _hated_ them. And how he wished she would spare him from whatever witchery allowed her to force him to dwell on the horrors of the past.

“Are you alright?” a soft voice asked, breaking through his reverie. “You looked a million miles away.”

“Am _I_ alright?” Reaver echoed, giving her his most mischievous of smirks. “Shouldn’t you be more concerned for yourself?”

She sat up slowly, not bothering to keep herself covered. Reasons for modesty, it seemed, had long been unwarranted between them. “Why?” Victoria questioned, a small, slightly puzzled smile playing about her lips. Concerned, she reached out to touch his face, but her fingers barely brushed the tips of his hair before he caught her hand and moved it away. “And why is your hair _wet?_ ”

He decided not to answer her second question, if only because he’d not yet admitted the answer to himself yet—that he had bathed only to wash her perfume from his skin and the memory of her fingers from his hair. After all, _this_ was _his_ curse and he didn’t understand _why_ she was so determined to unravel it. And he _liked_ being cursed, enjoyed it. The words echoed through his mind as though he was trying to convince himself.

Still smirking, he held out a dressing gown to her. “Put this on; there’s something you need to see.”

~ * ~

 _Her hands flexed, tugging slightly at the ropes around her wrists with languid curiosity. For the record, the ropes had been_ her _idea…and he was surprised it had not backfired. Yet. And he had to admit that her bonds suited her better than even the finest of bracelets; elegant and tight like a cuff, but all the more pleasing when he thought of all he could do with this new development. He wondered if she realised just how enticing she looked with her cheeks flushed and her body draped across his bed. Judging by the rapid rise and fall of her chest as he slowly lowered himself to sit between her legs and the wanton gleam in her eye, he felt it was safe to say she wasn’t_ entirely _unaware of the affect she had on him. She bit her lower lip to hold back a sigh, tugging gently at it with her teeth. Their eyes met, locking their gazes together as, slowly, he leaned down and pulled apart the laces of her drawers with his teeth._

 _She squirmed against him and he couldn’t help but let out a soft chuckle before murmuring, “Oh, Princess, the_ things _I could_ teach _you.”_

 _“_ You? _Teach?” she enquired teasingly. “What could you_ possibly _teach me?”_

_He moved forward, hands braced against the bed, until they were face-to-face. Smirking in a lazy sort of challenge, he replied: “Would you like to find out?”_

~ * ~

The halls were utterly silent and deserted; dark and cold with their absence of life. Silvery moonlight streamed in through the windows, keeping them from tripping over each other. Victoria couldn’t help but feel nervous; anytime she asked Reaver where they were going, he would only respond that she would see soon enough.

He led her into the library, through a side door that had always seemed to be locked, and closed the door behind them once they were both inside. The lock clicked with a hollow sort of finality; like the period at the end of a sentence that hadn’t even begun yet. Victoria, however, didn’t notice. Mystified, her gaze darted about the room and she couldn’t decide whether they’d stepped into some sort of secret study or a vault. Tall, glass-fronted bookcases lined every wall, only rarely interspersed with equally massive wooden cabinets. Each case seemed to both beckon visitors at the promise of some forbidden piece of information and, at the same time, ward them off through means of heavy padlocks and sturdy iron bars.

“Afraid of thieves?” she teased, nodding toward one of the bookcases whose iron-reinforcements looked the strongest.

“Not quite, my dear,” was the mysterious reply. “One might say some of these documents have a mind of their own. There are some… _objects_ in here that are not yet ready to be seen by the public.”

Victoria blinked, Reaver’s words going right over her head as a tickle of foreboding settled in her stomach. “What? Like…like blackmail material, do you mean?” When he didn’t reply, she anxiously added, “Reaver, what are we _doing_ here?”

Victoria sat down in the only chair by the cluttered desk, watching him carefully. She couldn’t help but feel suspicious of him, pondering his intent and finding no answer. Reaver took a full minute to regroup his thoughts before turning to one of the smaller cabinets. The lock on it looked newer than the others, but nevertheless strong as Reaver removed a ring of keys from his dressing gown’s pockets, fitted one inside the lock, and opened the door. Victoria had expected something incredible to be secreted away inside: jewels or perhaps some manuscript about some awful thing another noble had done and had covered up. Of the curious flood of fantastical things Reaver could have stored away, not one of them turned out to be true (for that particular cabinet, that is). Therefore it was a bit lacklustre when she discovered that all that was inside was a single piece of some sort of thick, expensive-looking paper.

“Your father,” Reaver began as he withdrew the sheet, his expression blank and his tone clipped, “was known to be rubbish at business in general, but—secretly, of course—he usually had a general idea of what he was doing, even if his plans…left something to be desired. No doubt _that_ is the reason why your brother believes he possesses the only copy…of _this_.”

The Princess took the paper from him in confusion. She was still tired and so it was hard for her to read the tiny words at first, but, the further she read, the more alert she became. Her heart raced and her stomach churned in a mix of excitement and irritation as her thoughts began to whirl. “Is this…is this what I think it is?”

“It is.”

“It’s… _different_.”

“I know.” There was a glint in Reaver’s eyes that Victoria found to be exceptionally strange. Strange, but not entirely unwelcomed.

She stared at the document for a very long moment, unsure of herself. On one hand, she was angry. Angry at Reaver for keeping it from her for so long and angry at Logan for changing their father’s words. On the other hand…well, this could be exactly what she was looking for to fix everything. Her throat worked for a moment as though she were trying to forcibly swallow a lump caught in it before she blurted: “Why didn’t you tell me about this sooner?”

“You never asked,” Reaver retorted, raising an eyebrow at her tone. “ _Really_. I thought you would be rather _excited_ about this.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” Victoria began awkwardly, “I am, and I’m grateful to you for showing me this. But, something doesn’t feel right. It’s almost too perfect.” She hesitated. “You’re certain Logan does not know you have this?”

“You doubt me so completely, don’t you?”

Victoria took that as him being certain and decided she didn’t feel up to telling him off for pouting at her. She had an idea. A wild, _crazy_ idea that she knew had a better chance of success than all of her other plans combined. Because Logan wouldn’t have a chance to get away from it. There would be almost _nothing_ he could do if he didn’t want to risk losing what little of Albion he had left. _It’s perfect_.

“Victoria?” 

Reaver’s voice pulled her back to the present.

Dazedly, Victoria stood up. “Excuse me a moment, I need to go.”

“…What?”

Reaver’s hat sat on the desk and she traced the top edge thoughtfully. “I…have an idea. There’s just…something I need to do.”

He gave her a questioning look as she picked up his hat and peered inside.

Victoria gracefully twirled the hat and put it on in the same movement. “I’ve got a wedding to plan.”

She waltzed out of the room—still only wearing Reaver’s hat and dressing gown—to leave the perplexed deviant to stare blankly after her. He was beginning to wonder if he had driven her mad when a thought suddenly occurred to him. _What does she mean, ‘a wedding to plan’?_

Now alert with paranoia, Reaver jolted to his feet and bolted after her. She had better not have meant what he thought she did.

~ * ~

_Two children played in the garden below; a small girl running to hide amongst the flowers while her older brother searched for her. Even from far above them, their laughter rang out joyous and clear. They were oblivious to the two men watching them from the study window above._

_“Reaver? Can I ask you something? Something I’m going to need you to do for me sooner than you’d think.”_

_“I might consider it. Tell me, what is the nature of this_ favour _of yours?”_

_“When I’m dead, will you make sure they don’t get into too much trouble? Especially Victoria. She’s more of a handful than she looks…I’m already having a hard time keeping her from following me on adventures.”_

_Reaver glanced at his friend out of the corner of his eye, reading the weariness coming off him in waves. Something was wrong, even if Sparrow didn’t want to disclose it. “I suppose I could consider keeping an eye on them.”_

_“Thank you,” Sparrow said softly, meaning it. After a beat of silence, he added with a growl, “Don’t get me wrong; you lay even a finger on my daughter in a way I might say was perverse and I’ll come back from the dead and drag you down to see Skorm myself.”_

_“I would never_ dream _of touching her,” Reaver replied with an innocence Sparrow didn’t buy. “Besides…I really_ do _hate children.”_


	23. White Wedding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think we need something nice today...this may not be nice, but it's a distraction, nonetheless. If anyone needs someone to talk to, feel free to contact me. Links on my profile. Stay safe, everyone, and I hope you're all well.

The journey back to Bowerstone was an exhausting one, both mentally and physically. They left well before dawn, everyone bleary-eyed and dressed in the finest visiting suits they possessed—Reaver with a vibrantly coloured waistcoat to offset his almost neutral-toned suit and Victoria in a striped navy blue and cream carriage dress—as they piled into the over-loaded carriage. Jasper had been granted clemency for his part in the rebellion, if only because Logan knew as well as Victoria did that a butler _had_ to follow any orders given to him, whether or not it was something they agreed with. Victoria privately wondered if the real reason Logan had pardoned him was because Jasper had been Logan’s butler for the entirety of those ten years before Victoria had been born and had helped raise him as much as their parents had. Either way, this was no occasion to look a gift horse in the mouth and so she, instead, silently offered thanks to Avo for having one less thing to worry about—at least now she wouldn’t have to sneak Jasper back and forth between the castle and the Sanctuary.

Their carriage rattled ever onward, the driver seemingly unconcerned about the heavy, iron-coloured clouds swirling threateningly overhead, and Victoria tried her hardest to soothe her nerves. Beside her, Reaver was ignoring his companions in a cold, contemplative storm of annoyance and Jasper, seated across from her, was engaged in creating a list of all that needed to be done before the wedding. Victoria knew perfectly well that she ought to have been focusing on her book—a supposedly terrifying tome about, of all things, murderous puffins—but it did little to distract her. Even if she hadn’t factored the wedding and the Crawler into her emotional status, she still had to face the uncomfortable fact that she would soon be seeing her brother again. A part of her secretly hoped that, as soon as Logan laid eyes upon her, he would decide the wedding was a mistake and he would immediately call it off. She knew better, though, which meant faking contentment would be exceptionally difficult over the next couple days.

Victoria refused to admit that the soon-to-come drop in contact between Reaver and herself played on her nerves at all.

Despite the awkward silence within the carriage, they made good time and reached Millfields an hour or so before dawn. The enormous pines and firs that lined the edges of the roads away from the lake looked far less foreboding than Victoria remembered, but, nonetheless, brooding in some regard. Peering resolutely out the window, she watched as the untamed wilds slowly became delicate, ornamental shrubbery and flowers, each bordering the sides of paths as houses began to creep up along the road. Far too soon, they found themselves in the shadow of the ancient wall surrounding Bowerstone. By then it was past breakfast and Victoria felt antsy. Jasper had thought ahead and had packed a small basket of biscuits and a bit of tea for their journey and had attempted to pass the snacks around the instant he noticed Victoria’s anxiety, but, much to her displeasure, she had been forced to decline; there was simply too big of a chance that Logan had arranged for some large, overly-impressive dinner in their “honour” and, if so, Victoria wanted to have no choice but to eat (as opposed to sitting there, sarcastically insulting the entire table). She also wasn’t entirely certain she could stomach food; she’d been feeling ill for a while and food wasn’t really the most appealing thing to her unsettled stomach. Perhaps she ought to see a doctor.

It was almost a relief when they arrived at the castle a short while later. _Relax_ , she told herself as she was helped out of the carriage. _Don’t focus on what_ might _happen should you fail; try to have faith!_ But, despite the attempt to bolster her mood, she couldn’t help but wonder who in their right mind had left the planning up to her…and then she recalled that it had been _Reaver_ who had all but abandoned her to her own devices once planning had begun so that meant all of this was technically _his_ fault. Though if Reaver was in his right mind was entirely up for debate.

They were led into the foyer by the housekeeper, whom had greeted Jasper with the warmth of an old friend. Logan was waiting for them—he couldn’t have possibly resembled a man struggling to keep above water more if he’d been doused with water. He greeted Jasper with an awkward nod that looked like it meant to convey some much warmer emotion and Reaver with a firm handshake and a look that seemed to mean _something_ to Reaver, if not anyone else. Logan didn’t seem to know what to do with Victoria and, to be perfectly honest, she wasn’t certain what to do with him. She wanted to hug him—knew she should hug him if only because they hadn’t seen each other in _ages_ and that was what siblings were meant to do (and, just maybe, deep down she missed the safety he had represented during their childhood)—but it felt…uncomfortable. She saw Logan’s hands clench and unclench as though he wanted to reach for her but was uncertain if she’d be open to it. In turn, she felt her muscles lock as if they were attempting to keep her from either fleeing or throwing herself at him.

After several long moments, during which both of the siblings were acutely aware of the stares being directed at them, Logan finally murmured tersely, “It _is_ good to have you home.”

 _We three traitors—we three vipers in your bed_ , Victoria thought almost absently. _Do you even know what you’ve brought on yourself? Do you know what we plan to do?_ She forced a small smile, knowing it wasn’t convincing in the least. “It’s good to be back.”

~ * ~

To be perfectly blunt, Victoria felt like collapsing; the rehearsal was _not_ going well. Oh, certainly everyone was doing what they ought to be doing, but Reaver was clearly bored, Victoria was exhausted, and Logan looked about ready to have something shot. Despite everyone gathering shortly after breakfast, they’d ended up loitering about for several hours, waiting for the torrential rain to stop. Only then did they all hurry out to the nearest gazebo to begin practice. By the time they were done, Victoria was immensely pleased that most of the additional details were already completed and out of the way. She was also beginning to hate her shoes.

Now, Victoria stood awkwardly in the midst of everyone. Nero was up in her rooms, Logan had pulled Reaver off to the side, and so, from where she currently stood, all she could see was a sea of unfamiliar faces. Awkwardly nibbling at her lower lip, she idly meandered through the crowd, wondering if now was a good time to sneak off to her rooms or the kitchens for a bit of peace and quiet.

“ _Victoria!_ ” a high, cheerful voice called out just before something fast hurtled into her. A pair of small arms wrapped around her waist warmly.

“Rowan!” Victoria gasped, barely able to keep from shouting aloud in surprise. _The very person I’ve been hoping to speak with_. Through the varied looks of disproval and occasional snickers of amusement at the overly-fond display being directed at them, Victoria caught sight of her brother and her…Reaver— _whatever_ he was; she didn’t want to think about it. Neither of their expressions had changed from their usual facades, but there was _something_ , some flicker of concern, in both of their eyes for a brief second as they noticed whom Victoria was interacting with. It was _clearly_ not a shared emotion but one they somehow had in common and Victoria felt some of her suspicions click into place. With a bright smile, she turned toward Rowan and cheerily said, “Shall we go look at what’s left of the flowers before it starts raining again?”

The smaller girl’s face lit up and she grinned, “Oh, yes; let’s!” Latching onto Victoria’s arm, Rowan proceeded to lead her down the stairs and back out into the gardens with an excitement that was lost on the Princess. “Of course I can’t refuse you, you know! You’re wearing my favourite colour!”

Victoria looked down at her toilette and frowned; it had been a gift from a former school friend that she’d felt too awkward to give away. That said: it was her least favourite gown in her possession. Made of a pale pastel pink silk and ivory lace, it made her feel like a strawberry bonbon in a sweets’ shop. And then, of course, was the issue with the roses embroidered along the hems. There hadn’t been any roses on castle grounds since her father had taken over the property so long ago; Sparrow had started the tradition in painful remembrance of his murdered sister—named Rose—and, since then, it had been far too awkward for either Victoria or Logan to change that for more than a single day. Turning her attention back to Rowan, she replied, “You can have it, if you want. The dress, I mean.”

Rowan’s pale blue eyes widened as though she couldn’t believe anyone would just willingly offer a gown to someone they barely knew and her smile faltered before returning brighter than ever. “Yes, please! …and…thank you.”

They walked arm-in-arm in a companionable silence, the damp grass rustling slightly with every step. Though the weather was growing colder quickly, Victoria thought it felt…pleasant. The perfect kind of weather for hot tea and a large book. It was certainly not wedding weather.

Once they’d gotten far enough away from the others, Victoria took a deep breath of crisp, petrichor-scented air and softy enquired, “Rowan, may I ask, how old are you?”

Rowan paused, removing her windblown pink hair from her face, before finally replying: “I…will be twenty-six next spring.”

“I see. And how long have you been working for Reaver _and_ Logan, as well as Page?”

The little thief visibly flinched, attempting to pull away from the Princess. “Victoria, it’s not—”

Victoria raised a hand, cutting her off. “Just answer the question, please.”

“I started working for your brother near the beginning of his rule,” she replied after a long, pregnant pause. Despite her discomfort, her voice was steady with a dignity that was out of place with her usual behaviour. “Mainly I was to keep an eye on things that were happening in the underworld and to inform him of any dangers. Reaver…wanted me to keep him informed of the King’s movements. I don’t know his reasons—I never cared to ask; the risk wasn’t worth it. I couldn’t even say who I’ve been working for longer.” She paused again, her mood growing worse by the second though it did nothing to raise Victoria’s sympathies. “Page…saved me from a band of mercenaries who caught me a bit too close to their camp. I repaid her the only way I could. Don’t you dare judge me,” she added harshly, as though she suddenly remembered who she was talking to, “you’ve no idea—”

“I’m not judging you,” Victoria replied, keeping her voice flat and emotionless. “I just wanted to know where your loyalties lie. Now that I do, I have a proposition for you.”

Rowan stared up at her, clearly thrown off balance. She looked like she wanted to run off, but was too curious about what Victoria might have been about to say. She slowly gave a small nod.

“You will no longer work for them—Reaver and Logan, that is,” Victoria said. “You’ll work for me. You will tell me what you know and what you see and, in return and as long as no one dies, I will ensure the guards will _never_ take you into custody for your…night time activities. I will do what I can to protect you…and you can stop at any time.”

Once again, Rowan faltered, her emotions showing plainly on her porcelain-doll face. She seemed uncertain, but not scared; just unsure if the risk was worth the price. Victoria, on the other hand, mentally crossed her fingers that she’d guessed properly that Rowan had some sort of threat issued against her to keep her from spilling all of her secrets to everyone. Even if one hadn’t been made, there was clearly something about her job that had her concerned, though not concerned enough to leave. If she’d guessed wrongly….

Slowly, Rowan smiled sweetly. “What did you want to know?”

~ * ~

Victoria rested her chin upon the velvet backing of the loveseat in her rooms. Her conversation with Rowan had been enlightening; though it had offered no real information that she could currently use against either her brother or Reaver, it _had_ given her plenty to think about. And so, with nothing much to do but ponder her thoughts, she’d contented herself to watching Reaver as he stood at the window, silhouetted against the monastral blue sky. For once he wasn’t running his mouth; instead he seemed just as thoughtful as she was, a tiny frown gracing his lips with its odd presence. And, though Victoria had dismissed Jasper for the day only a few hours previously—under the claim that she wanted to be alone with her soon-to-be-betrothed—they hadn’t spoken a single word to each other. She wondered exactly which one of them had more to be worried about losing should their plans fail.

The rain from that morning had returned to patter gently against the window panes. The sound of the splattering droplets combined with the warm crackle of the fireplace and the hollow clacks of the ornate long-case clock in a pleasant soundtrack to accompany their silence. However, despite Victoria being more than content to sit quietly, she couldn’t stop a question from bubbling to her lips and, before she was even fully aware of what she was doing, she murmured, “Reaver, what if this doesn’t work?"

“Then I suppose we will just have to improvise.”

 _How does he_ do _that?_ she wondered. _How does he make something dangerous and debilitating seem trivial and not worth the effort?_ “We’re _planning_ to _humiliate_ a King,” she hissed in reply, trying to keep the surprise off her face. “I’ve already committed _treason_. _You’ve_ been _lying_ to him for _years_. And your great ‘Plan B’ is ‘ _let’s just improvise_ ’?!”

Reaver, entirely unrepentant, didn’t even bother to glance over at her. “You would be surprised to learn just how many times a little improvising could happen to save your life.”

Victoria’s pensive frown shifted into a look of utter scepticism. She wasn’t sure if she ought to be amused or annoyed that, of all people, it was him that would dare bother to lecture her. It wasn’t exactly as though Reaver had any high standards of morality that entitled him to do so…then again Victoria didn’t exactly have room to talk, either. Perhaps the true issue she had taken was that she still wasn’t entirely certain whether or not Reaver would truly stick to their plan or betray her at the last moment. _Don’t dwell on it_ , she thought fiercely. _It’s not as though you could do anything about it at this moment._

The silence stretched on between them, making the air feel uncomfortably thick with tension. She couldn’t help but dwell on her panic at the thought of failing. Realizing that she was beginning to shake, she forced her eyes closed and buried her face in her hands in a futile attempt to block out the world and all its troubles.

“I’m scared, Reaver,” she admitted, her voice almost as shaky as she herself was. “For Albion. For myself…and for my friends.” _And even for you._ “That this is happening and I can’t… _do_ anything. I don’t want any more people getting hurt…I’m so _sick_ of watching people get hurt.”  And still a part of her longed to run as far and as fast as she could, but she knew she couldn’t. No; more than that, whatever made her a Hero refused to even let her try. _Stop being a child; you said you wanted to help people, so get over it and help them. You don’t come first._ Sighing, she lifted her head…and immediately flinched back in surprise upon discovering Reaver had come to crouch before her.

“You worry too much, little girl,” he murmured almost teasingly, reaching out to brush her hair from her face.

 _As opposed to you who never worries?_ “I can’t help it. I don’t sleep most nights…so I haven’t anything else to do.”

Victoria almost wished it was a lie, but, unfortunately, it was the truth. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the Crawler—her dreams were haunted by the echo of his voice and the feeling of icy blackness ripping into her soul. There was no rest to be had for her. No rest and no relief.

Instead of taunting her (as she’d expected), Reaver simply tilted his head slightly and remarked: “And whatever happened to that sleep tonic you were ordered to take, I wonder.”

Victoria flushed, feeling heat rise in her cheeks and spread through her face despite her conscious effort to remain guiltless. The previous night, Victoria had excused herself from dinner on the grounds of feeling faint and so Logan had escorted her to their nurse. Nurse Andrews, or Nanny as both siblings had always referred to her, had proclaimed that Victoria’s symptoms seemed to be nothing more than fatigue and stress. Nanny had told her to take a sleep tonic and to rest…but Victoria had not taken it. The tiny bottle had remained unopened and unused on her bedside table. She trusted Nanny but, while she didn’t think Nanny would give her anything harmful, she didn’t trust herself under the influence of some strange tonic. “I _may_ have forgotten to take it. Possibly.”

Reaver didn’t seem surprised by her answer (which made Victoria wonder when she’d become so predictable), merely amused. Smirking at her, he replied, “Go to bed, Princess. You’re insufferable when you whine.”

 _Insufferable?_ The remark stung, though she couldn’t say why. With an annoyed huff and a frown, she rose from her seat and edged around him. “Have it your way, then,” she said venomously, barely keeping a growl from her voice. “After all, why shouldn’t I? This conversation appears to be going nowhere.”

As she worked on removing her dinner dress’s bodice, she couldn’t deny that there was an unwanted stir of guilt twisting her gut in response to her words. When had she started to consider his feelings in light of things she’d said? When had he stopped appearing as a monster to her, only to be replaced by a man?  And, truly, she knew it was foolish of her to take her emotions out on someone else. But she also knew she couldn’t apologize to him—he would just tease her more if she did. So she waited, almost hoping he would say something in reply, but the silence returned. All she heard was the soft click of his boot heels as he made his way to the bedroom’s door. _Just as well_ , she thought; he knew as well as she did that not saying anything could hurt more than saying something could.

“Stay,” she murmured when he reached the door. “Please.”

Victoria heard the scuff of his shoes as he turned back toward her; could almost feel his curiosity in the heat of the gaze he fixed upon her.

“And _why_ ,” he replied, his voice almost a purr, “would you want me to do that? Feeling a bit clingy, are we? Or just startlingly daring?”

Victoria didn’t look at him as she finished undressing, and, letting her hair down, she said, “Just stay with me.”

_I don’t want to be alone right now._

After a long moment, she heard the lock click in the door and, the next, felt arms wrap around her.

~ * ~

“You may leave us.”

Walter stood in the middle of Logan’s study, his hands loosely bound before him and weariness in his bones. He didn’t think he’d ever been as exhausted as he was now. The guards had come for him, removing him from his and Ben’s cell to escort him to Logan, and the only thing keeping him from making a bid for freedom was the haze that filled his mind. That said, he knew perfectly well that, even if he was still in his cell, he wouldn’t have been able to sleep. Nightmares had plagued him since Aurora, limiting his rest to only an hour or two every night. His worry for Victoria wasn’t helping him.

He was drawn out of his thoughts as the study’s doors closed with a heavy thud. The room around him was surprisingly warm, though its occupant couldn’t be called the same. Logan hadn’t looked up from his work, not even when he’d excused the guards, and yet…something about the sight of him working reminded Walter of Sparrow. Perhaps it was the posture or the absolute focus both men projected or…actually, now that he thought on it, wasn’t their writing extremely similar? That was…strange; he’d never noticed before.

After a moment, Logan finally set his pen down and looked up at the older man, silently observing him.

“What do you want from me, Logan?” Walter asked flatly. He tried not to let himself feel any pity for the austere, calculating man sitting before him, but, unfortunately, he wasn’t blind enough to not see traces of the quiet, thoughtful child Logan had once been still engraved into his bearing. And so Walter tried to squelch the rush of emotion behind a fog of anger. “If you expect me to play traitor to my allies, you’re going to be sorely disappointed.”

The King was silent for a long time. It seemed to Walter that he wanted to say something, something that was probably important, but the silence continued on. Then, after a full minute had passed, Logan murmured, “She’s come home…I don’t believe you were made aware.”

Thirty seconds passed before the realisation that “she” was Victoria hit home and a wave of panic mixed with happiness crashed through him—happiness that she was alright for the moment and panic that Victoria might get caught. Then the dizzying swirl of emotions abruptly crashed down to a foreboding sense of disbelieving frustration; the only reason Victoria would have returned to the castle in a non-combative manner was if she was still being forced to marry Reaver.

“She requested to see you,” Logan continued evenly, “and asked that you receive this.” He pushed an unsealed envelope towards Walter, making it quite clear that it was the only reason Logan had had him brought to the study.

Walter hesitated before picking the envelope up. Certainly he didn’t want to spend more time than he had to in Logan’s presence, but he hadn’t thought Logan would all but dismiss him, either. He had to say something, anything, before he lost his chance. “Why are you forcing her to do this? She may put on a brave face, but we both know she is _far_ from happy. Is that what you _really_ want for her? Pain and misery with someone who will never love her? Do you want to force her to go as your mother did?”

What little colour there was in Logan’s face vanished and he flinched slightly as though Walter had slapped him, but whether there was anger or horror in the King’s eyes, Walter couldn’t say. Instead he pressed on, unable to keep the almost fatherly note of disapproval from his voice as he said, “I know you can’t want that for her…just as I know you cannot want Albion to suffer as it has been. You’re edging them toward oblivion, Logan. What can you hope to achieve by these means?”

“I am _trying_ to keep them safe!” Logan all but snarled, surprising Walter with the sudden outburst. “Victoria, Albion, it is my job to protect them! And if a few must suffer to keep the entire country from fading into an abyss, then that is the risk I am willing to take!”

Walter could hear the clatter of guards’ approaching in response to their King’s raised voice, but Walter didn’t make an effort to apologize. Instead, he simply lowered his voice and replied, “I’ve seen Aurora and what is coming; I know what you fear happening. And we both know the only way you’ll save anyone is if you step aside and give the throne down to Victoria. Albion may not listen to you, Logan, but they will listen to her.”

As the doors were finally thrown open, Logan simply stared at him as though he was going to be sick.

~ * ~

Thunder boomed, rattling the rain-splattered windows. Victoria stared apprehensively out the window as Jasper combed out the tangles from her hair and began curling it. She couldn’t even see the gardens through the thick, wet glass; it was raining too hard. Earlier, when the rain had only been half as heavy as it was now, she’d been able to see the large marquees the servants had erected in the night and she’d watched as the heavy tents had struggled to remain upright while the wind attempted to tear them down. She’d also noticed a ship coming in to port, though it had looked like a toy from where she sat, and wondered who was sailing in such weather. Now, however, all she saw was a heavy curtain of faintly shimmering grey.

“ _Beautiful_ weather,” Victoria remarked dryly. She wondered if there was a chance of getting the wedding cancelled on account of the grounds flooding and a desire to not have everyone drown, before reminding herself that she _needed_ the wedding to begin for her plans to have any sort of effect. She also needed to keep everyone out of the throne room as long as possible and that was exactly where Logan would move everyone in the event of her mentioning any sort of issue with the current state of the grounds.

“Actually, Princess, I do believe rain is meant to be good luck on one’s wedding day.” Jasper smiled at her in the mirror and, after a moment, Victoria smiled back. She’d never heard that one before, but she could use a bit of luck.

Jasper finished with her hair for the moment and led her over to the gown that she’d been trying not to look at. Victoria had never liked white dresses—they were extremely impractical and always seemed to get ruined within minutes of her putting them on—but this one she thought she might warm up to. The ivory silk and gauze were embroidered with thin strips of silver and gold which made the gown sparkle when the light hit at just the right angle. Deep blue ribbons made up the back lacings and added a bit of detail to the bustled train; the dark colour making the pale silk almost seem to glow. The rose rule had been broken just this once and large, white silk roses had been stitched around the bottom hems of each tier of the skirt. Overnight someone had sewn cream-coloured cabbage roses into the low neckline of the bodice and now the entire gown smelt slightly honeyed, as though it had been dunked in rose oil. Even though Victoria’s mind had turned to thoughts of an entirely different sort of rose—ones with blackened petals that wafted a spicy-sweet scent as it’s vines grew to coil around a small stone bench—and even though she had no true desire to get married, she still found the gown lovely.

“Thank you, Jasper,” Victoria murmured as he helped her dress. She fidgeted, lightly scraping her nails against her palms. “I’m not sure what I’d do without you.”

Jasper finished lacing her into her gown and gave her an encouraging smile. “You’d get on just fine, I imagine.” He paused and added, “Your stockings, however, I _am_ concerned for.”

Victoria choked on a laugh, thinking it sounded almost hysterical even to her ears, and fought the sudden urge to hug Jasper and never let go. She wanted to be optimistic, but she was starting to realise that she was utterly terrified. She forced herself to smile back at him, hoping that he was right.

A knock emanated from behind the door—unhurried but still demanding—and they both started in alarm. Jasper glanced toward the door with a frown before returning his attention to Victoria. “Shall I—?”

“Go on, Jasper,” Victoria replied, cutting him off before he could begin mother henning over her. “It’s probably just Logan, or, Avo forbid, Reaver.”

Jasper hesitated, bowed, and went to get the door. In his absence, Victoria attempted to compose herself. _No one cares to see you fall apart over nothing_ , she chided herself. Bullying herself didn’t work quite as well as it once had but it distracted her from her moping long enough for her to put her earrings on.

“Ah, Princess?” Jasper hesitantly supplied. “There…there is a woman here to see you.”

 _A woman?_ Victoria thought curiously, wondering who would be visiting her at this time. After all, had it been Rowan then Jasper would have called her by name…and Victoria wasn’t close to many women who weren’t either currently in prison or avoiding said fate. As such, she wasn’t certain what she was expecting when she turned around…just that she wasn’t quite what Victoria had thought. The woman was petite—not tiny like Rowan, but still of a small, wiry build. She looked, Victoria thought, like someone who was trying to pull off elegance and…was failing somewhat. Though she had powdered her face, it wasn’t nearly enough makeup to hide that she was very tan. Her flame red hair looked as though it had been hastily pulled into an up-do and her pale green gown was several seasons out of style. The nobility, Victoria was certain, would have a field day when they saw her. _I feel I should_ know _her_ , the Princess thought, though she couldn’t put a name to her face. Perhaps she’d met the woman’s mother or siblings at one point in time?

Jasper directed a questioning look at her and, in response, Victoria nodded. She was certain she could survive alone for a few minutes; she doubted any of the nobility would actively be out for her blood and, in the event they were, she was sure her Will would be enough to protect her for the time being. Jasper bowed, accepting his temporary dismissal with a murmur that he would return shortly before he exited the room.

As soon as the door had closed behind him, the woman grinned and, in a thick, cheerful brogue, said brightly, “Well, I can’t say my knowledge of weddin’s is e’stensive, but y’do make a fine bride, Princess.”

Victoria froze, eyes wide in surprise as she finally put a name to a face. “Lawson? _Caroline Lawson?_ ”

Staring at the woman before her, it was hard to match the lovely, almost proper-looking woman before her with the pirate she’d met all those months ago, but the voice was the same and the battle-hardened look in her eyes was the same. More similarities became apparent the longer Victoria looked and she felt…rather unnerved. She wondered how many of Reaver’s people she’d come across in her travels but had never even noticed.

“The one an’ only, dearie,” Lawson replied, her smile mischievous as she finally moved closer. “There’s a little girl downstairs with blue an’ pink hair; says she knows ya. She’s ditherin’ about, all happy she getsta be in your weddin’ an’ climbin’ on bloody _everythin’_. D’ya _really_ know her?”

Victoria gave a soft huff of laughter, unable to keep from smiling. “Yes, I do.” _Good_ , she thought; _Rowan’s here, that should help._ A long moment’s silence passed awkwardly between them before, too curious to no longer speak, the Princess added, “Not that it isn’t…um, _great_ to see you, but I don’t understand…why, _exactly_ , are you here?”

Lawson’s amusement was tangible and Victoria understood why. It wasn’t as though they’d ever really gotten to be friends.

“Cap’n’s order,” Lawson replied with a shrug. “Think of us as…back up.”

Victoria was utterly lost at that. _Reaver’s orders?_ Why on earth would Reaver issue orders for his crew to help them?  _He’s just as concerned about this failing as I am,_ she realised. _Is_ this _what he meant by improvising?_ “Who else is with you?”

“Finnigan…dunno if you remember him.”

 _The blond telling her it would be easy to cut free the sails…the ship pitching in the storm…slipping and the deck rising up to meet her…._ She repressed a shudder. “Yes, I recall him.”

“We would’ve chosen Ames instead…but we couldn’t find a suit big enough for ‘im,” Lawson went on thoughtfully before, apparently, rousing herself from her thoughts. “But this ein’t why’m here.”

“It…isn’t?”

“No, I’ve got somethin’ for ya. I gotta think’n’ an’ I realised yeh prob’ly didn’t have a weapon on ya…y’know, just in case. So…I thought I migh’ bring ya one.”

“Um…thank you?” Victoria offered, uncertain. She didn’t understand Lawson. Following Reaver’s orders to ensure their quest was successful was one thing, but deciding to help on her own was…strange. After all, didn’t Lawson dislike her?

“Not a problem,” the pirate replied, removing a small, slender stiletto from her purse and handing it off to Victoria.  After a moment’s hesitation, Victoria took the dagger and slid it into one of her boots. “C’mon, then, Princess,” Lawson said brightly once she was done. “Best get ya to your weddin’ ‘fore your groom thinks you’ve buggered off on ‘im.”

Victoria couldn’t help but laugh. _Right_ , like Reaver—Mr. Improvision-Is-A-Perfect-Plan—would _really_ be _so_ offended if she skipped out on the ceremony. Once more, she hesitated. Then again, now she thought on it, he _was_ exceptionally proud…perhaps he really _would_ take offense to her leaving him. “I need a moment with Jasper first and then I’ll be ready.”

Jasper entered the room as Lawson left and helped her finish dressing. As she pulled on her gloves and the rest of her jewellery, Jasper pinned pale ivory flowers into her curled hair before also pinning a thin, lace veil atop her head. They’d discussed whether or not she should wear her tiara for the wedding, but Victoria had ultimately declined. As far as she was concerned, this was only a “royal wedding” in the sense that her brother was both King and the host; since it was not a true wedding, she saw no need to wear any symbols of her status. Not that it mattered, really. She hadn’t seen her tiara’s box all day…since she’d last seen Reaver, come to think of it. _Hmm…_.

She hugged Jasper good bye, hoping it wouldn’t be for the last time, and left her rooms. Lawson all but led her down to the gardens, keeping as close as possible as if she were worried someone might attack them, and Victoria gave up on small talk as soon as she realised just how unsettled her stomach was. _Please don’t get sick_.

Once they’d nearly reached the gardens, Victoria was forced to trade Lawson’s company for Logan. The tense set of Lawson’s shoulders showed just how much she disapproved of leaving the Princess in her brother’s care, but she had no choice but to curtsy to her King before heading out as quickly as possible. Victoria was glad she did; there was no need to start an incident over something unavoidable. Still, she couldn’t deny that Logan’s company was far more awkward than even Lawson’s had been. For a long moment, neither sibling dared say a word. Logan simply stared at her, something sad and almost tired lurking in his eyes, while Victoria memorized the brushstrokes of the painting behind her brother.

“Victoria,” Logan began, his words falling to an uncomfortable halt almost immediately. When no further words were forthcoming, he simply took her arm, suddenly in a hurry to lead her down the aisle. After another tense moment, he added quietly, “I wish you all the happiness in the world…as I’m sure you will receive.”

Victoria finally was able to meet his eyes, only to find he wouldn’t look at her. She struggled to keep her expression impassive. She knew she was meant to be happy today, if only as an act, but she just couldn’t. Not now. “I suppose I should thank you for that, Logan, but I’m not entirely certain I can…nor do I really care to try.”

He started to speak before stopping himself once more—perhaps, Victoria reasoned, he knew it would mean very little right now.

They each shifted their grip on the other’s arm into a more comfortable position and Victoria forced a small smile onto her lips. She couldn’t stop herself from trembling. A second or so passed before Logan signalled the doorman and the garden doors opened to a sea of unfamiliar faces. There were far more people than she had expected under the marquee, none of which looked the least bit familiar. She couldn’t have spotted Finnigan if she’d tried, though she would have loved nothing more than to see a friendly face. The crowd rose to their feet as she and Logan passed and their whispering grew like the swelling buzz of a bee hive. And yet, despite the sound, she couldn’t quite hear them or the sound of the faint music tinkling through the heavy rain. It was as though someone had stuffed cotton in her ears and she struggled to keep herself from staring blankly around in shock.

Judging by the stiffness in his arm and the tense aura he seemed to be radiating, Logan was just as uncomfortable with the attention as she was. The pressure was staggering. Suddenly, Victoria understood why brides succumbing to fainting spells on their wedding days were such a concern. She couldn’t imagine how much more difficult this would be if she were actually in love with her betrothed. _Breathe, breathe_.

Victoria refrained from _dragging_ her brother down the aisle, reminding herself that they were being studied for authenticity and that going against the plan would only make what she was about to do look even worse. After all, even if only she and Reaver were aware that this was against both of their wishes, that didn’t mean she had to rush through the ceremony as if it were some Avo-forsaken play she’d been coerced into only that morning. It was time to end the game—to call “checkmate”, if you will. And so she kept her back straight and proud and, with more grace than she knew she had, walked carefully down the aisle.

The closer they drew to Reaver, the more genuine she could feel her smile becoming. She thought him beautiful in black and white, deciding it suited him well. There was something warm and unfamiliar in his eyes and she wondered what he was thinking. His smile was odd, utterly unlike him; less like a smirk than usual but a lot more forced. Something about him screamed to her that he was uncomfortable, but, for the most part, his calm façade was believable. _Faker_ , she thought, more amused than she ought to have been.

Still, she couldn’t draw breath properly until they’d finally reached the end of the aisle and Logan had let go of her arm. He leaned over to kiss her cheek—a gesture that was entirely unfamiliar, coming from him—and, almost under her breath, she whispered to him: “Could you have possibly made that aisle any longer?”

“Behave,” Logan murmured, equally quiet, though he was wearing a tiny smile. Victoria couldn’t discern if it was real or not.

Logan shook Reaver’s hand and they had a brief, whispered exchange. Victoria heard nothing of what was said, but it certainly seemed to bring out some sort of sadistic amusement in Reaver, who accepted her from her brother with an almost carefree poise. His fingertips lightly brushed against her bare skin almost casually before he took her arm, and Victoria refused to admit just how much his touch calmed and secured her.

 _Alright, we’re here…now we just need to stick to the plan. Stick to the plan_.

They stepped up to the monk, who’s portly figure seemed almost as tense as the Princess felt. And, as he began speaking, not a single word he said registered to her. The only thing she seemed capable of noticing was the weight of hundreds of eyes upon her and the occasional rustling of movement.

Her mind was beginning to scream that this was wrong. To distract herself just enough so that she didn’t blurt the words aloud, she murmured sarcastically to her fiancé, “How do I look?”

Reaver kept his eyes trained on the monk, as she had, and whispered in turn: “If it weren’t for all these people, I would have you out of that dress already.”

“And here I thought you were more adventurous than that.”

“Mmm…well, if you _insist_.”

Before them, the little monk’s already ruddy face went even redder. And yet, though he had clearly heard them where no one else had, he didn’t falter in his speech…to which Victoria had to give him credit. She also had to be glad he’d not called them out on it; their banter had steadied her just enough to keep focused, and the last thing she wanted was to start some sort of dispute. Well…not just yet, anyway.

And so she listened to him as well as possible, trying and failing to understand his sermon. “ _Love_ ”. Did anyone really believe that could even exist in an arranged marriage? Come to think of it…she wasn’t entirely sure she believed romantic love existed. She’d never experienced it herself. She had cared for people before, but never beyond the close affection she’d have for a comrade or even a sibling. Never romantic. If one could not find love on their own, among those they were close to, then how could it be found when that person was tethered to someone they didn’t desire? Was the emotion just a farce to explain a deep attachment to another person? Or could people almost… _learn_ to love each other? The very notion confused and unsettled her. She truly did not like it.

Luckily, the monk had moved on to asking if anyone had any objections to their betrothal and it drew her sharply from her thoughts. Out of the corner of his eye, Reaver sent her a questioning look, and Victoria gave him a minute nod in turn. It was time.

“I do so _hate_ to interrupt,” Reaver interrupted, his voice strong and clear but completely unconcerned, “but I do believe the Princess and I have something we wish to say.”

The monk immediately stopped talking, looking confused but all too willing to let Reaver continue to speak. Victoria wouldn’t look at anyone, instead choosing to focus on doors at the opposite end of the aisle; she didn’t want to accidentally see her brother’s expression.

Like the conductor of some strange orchestra, Reaver turned to the confused audience. “Gentlemen. Ladies. You came for a spectacle and a spectacle you shall have. However, I regret to inform you that, as much of a thrill as it would be for me to marry the Princess—and as much as I’m positive she feels the same about me—”

He didn’t pause in his speech as Victoria shot him a you’re-not-following-the-plan glare.

“—we both feel it would be much more entertaining to _almost_ get married. Less work. Less _paperwork_. And, well—”

“Oh, _shut it_ ,” Victoria muttered stepping forward. She was annoyed and her cheeks burned with embarrassment. Why? _Why_ did Reaver always have to deviate from the plan? How hard was it to stick with what they’d rehearsed and simply say “actually, yes, we do object to this”?

Everyone was confused. Rowan twirled her blue and pink dyed hair, blinking innocently from the front row as Caroline, head slightly tilted as she stood off to the side, stared at her captain as if he’d just completely lost his mind. Logan had gone pale, as if he’d just been shot.

Victoria shoved her bouquet of flowers into Reaver’s hands.  He looked at them, wondering what, by the gods, he was supposed to do with them. Clueless, Reaver tossed them aside.

Already fed up and eager to get this over with, Victoria stepped forward. “What Reaver means to say is: we have a bit of a problem we’d like to address. Logan? Might we have a _private_ word?”


	24. A New Alliance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NaNo is over! I can actually sleep now! Hugs to you all!

The door banged open and it was only Reaver’s quick hands that kept it from slamming shut on them. But Reaver, unlike Logan who looked nearly ready to explode, was far too pleased for anyone’s own good. He couldn’t help himself, really, because he was certain that whatever happened next would be either wonderfully hilarious or horrifically amusing. Either way, something most of Albion would have probably paid handsomely to see.

Reaver sat down as elegantly as he had ever been taught to do as he watched the King finally release Victoria’s arm. It was clear Logan knew exactly who was to blame for the entire ordeal. But Victoria was unshaken. She stood there, as calm and lovely as any ingénue but with all the fury of an avenging angel in her eyes as she stared her brother down. As Logan geared up enough to lash out at them, she yanked the veil from her hair and tossed it onto the chair beside Reaver’s. If he had to guess, he’d say the Princess’s defence was going to be strong, but the question was, was it stronger than the King’s probable offense?

“What the _hell_ are you two doing?” Logan finally ground out, trying to restrain himself.

 _I’ll give him props for an aggressive approach, but he’ll need to lose some points for a lack of originality_ , Reaver decided.

“I’d think it would be obvious, brother,” Victoria told him coolly. “The monk asked if anyone had any objections, clearly _we do_.”

“You assured me—you _both_ assured me—there would no longer be any issues with this arrangement.”

“Yes, well… _obviously_ we _lied_.”

 _And point to the Princess_. Reaver idly twirled a fountain pen, head tilted slightly as he watched them. Logan was pale, but his cheeks were flushed in anger; he was nearly in his sister’s face which only served to highlight the fact that Victoria was now taller than him. Victoria, on the other hand, was calm and controlled. She was icy and cold and she wasn’t bothering to actively combat her brother’s rage. Reaver couldn’t quite tell who had the upper hand, though. Or who was going to last the longest in the argument. If he had to guess, Logan just wanted his sister safe and Victoria just wanted Logan to stop and listen…if either of them played to the other’s weaknesses, this would be over quickly.

Or, at least, that’s what he’d put his money on…well, some of his money. Avo knew why either sibling was so riled up.

“You… _lied_ ,” Logan echoed disbelievingly. He wasn’t looking at Reaver. Just at Victoria. And he didn’t look like he understood what he was hearing. “ _You?_ ”

“Yes. But let’s not forget, brother dear, _you_ lied to _me_ first.”

 _Possibly another point for little miss sunshine unless a much stormier forecast decides to penalize her._ Reaver stopped twirling the pen, slowly tapping it instead. _As hurricane Logan has probable cause to do…still, I’d say it was only worth a warning at most._

Logan’s surprise was nearly believable. “Lied?! To _you_? And _what_ , exactly, are you referring to?”

“Are you really expecting me to believe that you honestly don’t know?”

Victoria’s question was rhetorical and edged with a sharp tang of bitterness. She paused just long enough to frown at her brother before carefully placing a foot on the seat of one of the armchairs. Reaver’s attention was undivided as Victoria pulled up the hem of her gown just enough to reach the top of her boots and removed a folded sheaf of paper from where it had been tucked into the lacy heels. Logan looked scandalized as though she had lifted her skirt to her waist in the middle of Bowerstone, but also mildly puzzled.

“There,” Victoria said, straightening up as she forced the document into her still staring brother’s hands. “Go on, then. _Read it_.”

“What am I meant to be reading?” Logan enquired dismissively without even bothering to look at the document.

“Just _read it_.”

The King unfolded the paper, sparing the pen Reaver was ceaselessly tapping the smallest of annoyed looks. The paper rustled slightly as he straightened it and began to read: “‘I, Sparrow of Bowerstone’,” he read, lips moving though he didn’t make a sound, “‘do hereby swear to uphold and sanction the union and marriage of Reaver of Bloodstone to my firstborn child’.” Despite the fact that there was much more to the document, Logan stopped reading, clearly knowing what point his sister was trying to make. A muscle over one of his eyes twitched in repressed irritation, but he composed himself. He smoothed his features into an impassive mask and said tonelessly, “I see no difference between this and what has already been shown.”

_Point to the King for an almost convincing bluff, but how will the competitor react?_

Victoria gave her brother a soft, patronizing smile. “Really? Are you certain, brother? Surely even you can see that _this_ document reads ‘firstborn child’ whereas the one you showed me so many months ago, clearly stated ‘firstborn _daughter_ ’.”

Logan just frowned.

“It’s a small difference, I know. But I think it’s an important one, don’t you? And, since Reaver has no _real_ reason to lie to me,” Victoria continued, “the only logical answer is that _you_ forged the other document. After all, both Reaver’s handwriting and my own are _extremely_ different from father’s, but yours is very close, isn’t it? Didn’t _daddy_ even ask you to help him compose business letters for him when he was too busy to do it himself for a time?”

From where Reaver was sitting in his comfortable armchair, Victoria’s prodding looked to be the final nail in the proverbial coffin Logan had walked himself into. Anger was brewing within the younger man, everyone could see that. But it was surprising, however, when Logan said nothing in reply. Reaver wondered, for the barest of split seconds, if the Princess could admire her brother’s steadfastness or not. Not that it mattered to him one-way or the other. Unless they came to blows, he didn’t care a jot.

“What, Logan? You aren’t even going to attempt to reply to me?” Victoria’s voice was soft, but disappointed, showing the men that her anger was beginning to wane. Reaver realised the Princess was beginning to worry she’d been cruel and he felt the sudden urge to roll his eyes. If she softened too much, Logan would be able to walk all over her and Reaver had no desire to play the villain at the moment.

“How do you expect me to reply to such heinous _blackmail_?”

Victoria flinched as if she’d been slapped, surprise flickering across her face. “‘Blackmail’?! Great _Avo_ , Logan, it’s not as if I’m asking you both to _marry_ —”

“Isn’t that a relief?” Reaver cut in, making sure to sound much more bored than he even really felt at that moment.

“Reaver,” Victoria murmured warningly, not looking at him. When he, unrepentant, just yawned, her attention returned to her brother. “Logan, all I’m asking is that you cancel the wedding and that you stop and listen to me for a moment. That’s all I‘ve ever wanted you to do.”

“Give me a reason, just _one reason_ , I should listen to you and not have you _both_ arrested for sedition and conspiracy,” Logan all but demanded.

 _Ah, wait a moment. Time out._ Reaver dropped his pen and sat up straighter. A vaguely annoyed expression had settled over his features as he ignored an immensely discomforted sensation that had started to prod at his gut. _You can’t possibly bench the referee._

He didn’t like the thought of being arrested; it had been such a nice long while since the last time, after all. And prison sentences were infuriatingly hard to twist into a good story without demonizing one’s self. If he was arrested as a traitor, _now_ …well, it would utterly _ruin_ his reputation. Which was a pity. A tarnished reputation made him interesting to others, something with just enough danger to be enticing, but a blackened one? He’d do better as a leper. _And yet, even then, I doubt Benjamina would leave me alone._ Reaver couldn’t decide if that was amusing or just really pathetic.

“I know about the Crawler,” Victoria replied gently, meeting her brother’s eyes with determination.

Something like relief flowed over the King’s body, only to be replaced by well-hidden panic deep within his eyes. Logan was worried. His voice was calm, though, as he asked, “How do you kn—?”

“Doesn’t matter,” she told him evasively, cutting him off. “I know he’s coming, and I know it will be soon. Logan, if you’ll just listen to me, I’m sure we could work something like a plan out. If we work together, I _know_ we can stop him.”

 _How cliché_ , Reaver thought with a soft chuckle. _I’m almost considering taking points off for that._

Logan gave Victoria a wry look. “There _is_ no way to stop it…if you believe our father’s seeress.”

“Theresa’s a determined pessimist,” the Princess replied dismissively, shooting Reaver a look that spoke for itself when Logan wasn’t looking. After a beat of silence, she sighed. “Fine. If you don’t require my help, then call off the wedding and I’ll deal with it on my own.” She hesitated. “I don’t suppose you would consider letting my friends go, would you?”

“And risk a coup? Not a chance, my dear sister.”

“A coup?” Reaver echoed, sounding so surprised he hoped Victoria knew his ways well enough to know it was put on. “Whoever said anything about a coup? _Doves_ coo; does your sister—no, more importantly, do _I_ look like a _bird_ to you?”

A beat of silence followed Reaver’s out-of-place words as Logan just stared blankly at him, probably just now realizing that the man he’s entrusted his sister to was _utterly mad_ by normal societal standards. Victoria, too, just stood there. However, she was struggling to keep a straight face and not to laugh. Reaver was glad he’d broken up the pity party before it could begin. Those were _always_ annoying.

“I think we’ll just leave, then,” the Princess murmured decorously, starting for the door.

Reaver began to rise from the armchair, disappointed that there wasn’t going to be another round. It was odd that the King was giving in so early. But, he supposed, it made sense. There was no real winning against the Princess; she stalwartly refused to budge from her beliefs. You either had to fight and come to a compromise (and hope you could get most of what you wanted out of it) or fight and be impaled on your own pride as she tore you apart. If he had been another man, he was sure he probably wouldn’t have lasted this long with her. Reaver supposed Victoria ought to get bonus points for being a tough little bitch at the best of times.

Of course, that fact was also why he was so against marrying her. When she became Queen (when, not if, because he knew, eventually, she would), he would have to pick a side if they were married. She would never bend to his will and he knew she would demand him on her side…and the last thing he wanted to do was be stuck on the side of some overly-pure hearted girl. Even if he could, just a little bit, respect her determination.

“How do you plan to stop the Crawler?”

Victoria turned back to face her brother with a curious look. “Why?”

“I never said I was going to call off the wedding, sister,” Logan retorted coolly.

The Princess paused and Reaver thought he could see the wheels in her head turning. Even he didn’t know exactly what she was up to. All he knew was little glimpses of things she’d let slip when she thought he wasn’t paying attention.

“You’re going to need to start with getting together an army, _then_ I’ll tell you my plans,” she said succinctly as Reaver picked up his pen again.

Logan sat down upon the edge of his desk, apparently relaxing though not enough to not be shrewd as he replied, “An army? Of course. As you can see, my efforts to do such have ended _so well_.”

The unexpected sarcasm made Victoria smile. “There are enough Resistance members, both scattered throughout Albion and in your jails, to form an army when combined with your soldiers. If need be, I will sponsor them. I’ve enough money to cover the entirety of the costs.”

Silence reigned in the room for a _very_ long time as her words penetrated both men’s minds. Exactly how much gold did Victoria have at her disposal? The thought turned around and around in Reaver’s head, slowly changing his emotions from surprise to curiosity. For some reason, he’d never given much thought t0 Victoria’s wealth status. It had never seemed…important, really. He could tell Logan hadn’t considered it, either.

“Even if you paid for them, they would never follow my command,” Logan told her slowly but surely.

Reaver could agree with him there; why would any of the Resistance ever follow Logan? Victoria would have to be delusional to think they would…they’d sooner follow a chicken, come to think of it. But he decided to wait before messing with more points.

The Princess’s smile turned grim. “They’ll follow _me_.”

Reaver couldn’t fight his own smirk nor did he want to. _Point and match to the Princess, ladies and gentlemen_.

~ * ~

“Congratulations,” Reaver drawled as soon as Victoria exited her chambers.

“Hmm?” Victoria wasn’t paying attention. She had been lost in thought from the time they had finally left Logan’s study all the way through her getting changed and retrieving Nero. She was not about to meet with her friends, and the other rebels, and try to get them to follow her while wearing some Avo-forsaken _cream puff_ of a gown…no matter how pretty it might be.

“Oh, nothing. I was merely expressing my ardent admiration of how masterfully you manipulated your brother into doing… _exactly_ what he did not wish to do.” Reaver, not stopping to make sure the small box he had was still tucked under his arm, clapped sarcastically a couple times. “Bravo; it was beautiful.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “Reaver, can I ask you something? Have you always been this good at kissing up to people, or do you just spend hours on end practicing to a mirror?”

“Did you _ever_ have _any_ doubt that I couldn’t be ‘ _this good_ ’?”

The Princess rolled her eyes. “As much as your ‘praise’, however genuine it may be, is welcome…I have a feeling that convincing Logan is going to be the easier task of the day.” She hesitated and frowned. “What have you got in the box?”

Reaver half glanced at the thin, velvet-covered box ( _wait a moment_ , she thought, wondering if it was her missing tiara…and why he had it) he’d tucked under his arm. The edge of some paper was peeking out from behind it. The look he gave her as he placed it on a low table just inside the door of her room gave her the feeling that he was up to no good. “Nothing of importance.”

Victoria believed him about as far as she could toss a hobbe—i.e. not very far. “Right. Whatever you’re up to, just don’t piss off Page.  I would _hate_ to have to stand aside and let her kill you just because you were an arse.”

She turned away from him to head down the plushly carpeted hallway, Nero following happily in her wake. Behind her sarcasm, Victoria had been serious. She had the sneaking suspicion that Reaver and Page would be the deaths of each other. And the sureness of that thought worried her, though she wasn’t sure which one she was worried for.

“I refuse to make any promises,” Reaver quipped.

 _I bet_ , the Princess thought dryly. Maybe she should have asked Logan to keep Reaver back until she was done.

“You shouldn’t worry so much, my sweet.  That pretty little face of yours will age up in no time at all.”

“Yes, well…we can’t all be you, now can we?”

Victoria hurried on ahead, deciding to let him figure out what, exactly, she meant from a safe distance of about ten feet behind her; it didn’t sound like much, but at least she would be prepared for the worst. The halls were empty and silent beyond the sound of the rain pummelling the windows and the guards stationed in the halls. The aforementioned soldiers saluted her as she walked past, and Victoria thought it strange that she’d gone from Public Enemy Number Two (One being Page’s spot) and back to the King’s beloved little sister in all of a couple hours. She decided that either word of them attempting to work together had travelled the castle quickly or Logan’s men were intimidatingly good actors. Or both. There were no other real explanations for the somewhat abrupt shift in attitude.

Nero trotted along, looking at everything and panting heavily. His tail waggled constantly like a flag caught in a storm. He was glad to be home. If the collie had any idea of what was going on, he certainly didn’t show it.

The throne room had been set up for a meeting as per her request; an armchair had also been added, slightly off-centre of the dais upon which the throne sat. She certainly was _not_ planning on sitting on the throne…it didn’t seem like the right sort of statement to send. She was confident, however, that everyone would be able to hear her there—even if they chose not to listen to her. The guards, though, were superfluous and just wouldn’t do. It granted her a small measure of pleasure to ask most of them to leave and to have them listen to her.

Maybe she should have told Logan she knew about the Crawler sooner; it might have afforded her more privacy. The mental image of how he would have reacted intruded upon that thought and she frowned. Or, maybe not. As much as it bothered her now, in hindsight, to set him up, he wouldn’t have listened any other way.

Reaver had settled himself into her armchair without giving her a chance to sit down and she shot the lounging man an annoyed glare. Not that it mattered. Reaver always ignored her glares, and she wouldn’t have been able to sit long due to the people that began filing into the room shortly thereafter, anyway.

Victoria felt the weight of a hundred eyes upon her as the doors closed behind the last of the rebels. A good deal of the crowd was whispering, making the room sound as if a tendril of the wind outside had gotten caught within the walls. The Princess’s guilt grew with every cut and bruise her eyes fell on, twisting her gut with shame and sorrow. This wasn’t meant to have happened to any of them. She purposely kept from looking for Page, Walter, or Ben.

“Um…hi,” she began awkwardly, wishing there was a Will ability that could make her invisible. “I’m utter rubbish at speeches, so…so I guess I’ll…I’ll get right to it. I-I need your help.”

The whispering grew in volume. Even from where she stood, she could hear more angry voices than curious ones. _I should have asked Logan to speak instead. Or I should have met with Page and asked her to relay the situation to the others_.

“Traitor!” someone shouted, making Victoria flinch.

Another voice rose up, “Why should we help you when you won’t help us?!”

“I should think,” Reaver said, words dangerously soft, though Victoria was certain _everyone_ could hear him perfectly well, “you would want to stop that line of thought, now, before _someone_ stopped it for you.”

“Reaver, stop it,” Victoria snapped. “They have the right to an opinion; isn’t that part of what I’ve been fighting for?”

He didn’t deign to answer, his expression as contentedly bored as it had been since he’d begun lounging about in her chair.

“I think, what he means, is that we would all like to hear what you want to say.”

Victoria looked up, relief spreading through her at the sight of Walter pushing his way to the front of the group. Ben stood in his shadow, emaciated and ragged but he gave her a supportive grin. Her eyes felt strangely warm and she had to fight the urge to race over and throw her arms around them both.

Emboldened, Victoria went on. “I need your help, but, more importantly, Albion needs your help. Something is coming. Something the likes of which has never in recorded history been witnessed here. In Aurora, they call it the Crawler. Its goal, from what I know, is only the destruction of every being in this country. And…and to rule over our corpses once it has done so.”

“The Crawler is…coming here?” a dark woman with wild black hair asked. Her voice was low and frightened and Victoria recognized her from Aurora.

“I’m afraid so,” Victoria admitted, trying to ignore the sounds of outrage and anger coming from some of the crowd. “And we don’t have much time.”

The crowd grew even more restless. They were talking in earnest now, and Victoria couldn’t make out half of what was directed at her. She looked helplessly at Reaver, who gave her a look as if to say, “Well? You _are_ meant to be an extremely powerful Hero, so _you_ control them.” And she looked at Walter, who didn’t seem to have any more of an idea about what to do than she did. _This is an utter fiasco. How did I ever think I could do something like this?_

“Why?” someone, their odd voice heavy with scepticism, called over the crowd.

“I beg your pardon?” Victoria enquired, not hearing him well and not quite understanding what he meant. Why did she have a feeling there was about to be some nasty argument?

“Why should we help you fight this thing?” The man had edged his way into the open aisle between the two sections to glower contemptibly at her.

A large portion of the room fell into silence.

“Because it’s coming to Albion,” Victoria said disbelievingly. “Because this revolution was begun to save and protect our home.”

“ _And?_ You’re the Hero, ein’t you? That’s your job, right? Protecting us from things that want us dead?”

 _It is, but I can’t do it alone_.

Victoria couldn’t think of how to reply to that without sounding far too imperious or like a sham. It didn’t take long before something else occurred to her, though: she was the Princess. She’d been leading a revolution. Who gave a _damn_ if she was rude when she defended her point of view, and, by extension, her country, in this situation? She wanted to save people, so what did it matter if a couple of people were offended as long as everyone was safe and she didn’t go over board?

But someone beat her to the punch.

“You swore an oath,” Page said sharply, emerging from the crowd to face the man. Her dreadlocks were beginning to frizz and her face bore the signs of exhaustion and stress. “You swore an oath, to me, to protect Albion. You would turn your back on us now?”

“That’s right. Why should we suffer for you?”

“Look,” Victoria interrupted, far too aware of Reaver’s watchful gaze upon her. “I’m not going to sit here and preach to you about the virtues of helping us fight. I arranged with King Logan for your release. If you will not fight, then _leave_. Go home to your families and friends and prepare for the worst if you can. But, if any part of you still has faith in Albi—”

“Don’t try to poison us with your words,” the man spat; obstinate despite that a large portion of the crowd appeared to be thinking it over.

“I am _not_ attempting anything. If you don’t want to be here, _if you do not care_ , then _leave_. _Now_. Albion is running out of time and I will not suffer fools for a moment longer.”

The room was utterly silent. Victoria looked over the sea of faces, waiting. A small trickle of movement began to spread through the room as people began to move toward the door. And, soon enough, even the man who had confronted her began to turn away.

And Victoria didn’t mind. She was utterly impassive, not even feeling the slightest inkling of betrayal that they wanted to leave. _Let them go_ , she told herself calmly. _Just let them go_.

Page shot her a look, clearly asking what Victoria wanted her to do. The Princess could tell Page wanted to stop them, but she shook her head.

 _Let them go_.

There were more people still there than Victoria had expected and she watched them carefully. “So now the rest of you have a choice. Will you fight for Albion? Or will you stand by and watch it be consumed?”

People were whispering again, talking to their neighbours and asking for their opinion. Victoria didn’t have to wait long for her first answer.

“I’m not going anywhere, Princess,” Walter assured her. “It’s going to take more than some monster to scare me off.”

She couldn’t help but feel relieved that Walter wasn’t angry at her. “Thank you, Walter.”

Ben took a couple steps toward her, trying to hide his charming, carefree grin (and failing). “I don’t know about the rest of the gits in Swifty’s brigade, but _I’m_ sticking with you.”

More than a couple men shouted things at Ben, their words melding until they were indecipherable to Victoria.

“I think they’re in, too,” the blond translated, abashed, to Victoria when she gave him a look. Regaining his usual composure, Ben added, “After all, you need people with intelligence for this type of thing.”

“Which rules you out, Finn,” Walter told him, earning a pout in reply.

“My name is Ilan, Your Highness,” the Auroran woman who had asked about the Crawler said, stepping forward. “Aurora will fight beside you.”

“Thank you,” Victoria told her, bowing slightly when Ilan did.

Page, who had been glaring at Reaver, turned her attention back to the Princess. “The Bowerstone Resistance was created to stand up to _all_ forms of tyranny—” she shot another look at Reaver at that, before continuing on— “and _we_ won’t abandon you.”

Victoria smiled graciously, feeling herself relax as relief spread through her. She couldn’t feel upset that a third of the room had left. The support of the remaining rebels filled her with confidence. Maybe they had a chance after all.

“Page,” she began, not knowing how to express her relief. Victoria froze, her face falling as she realised something. “Where is Kalin? And Sabine and Saker?”

“I saw Saker escape toward Bowerlake!” someone near the back of the room called helpfully.

“Boulder probably took Sabine away,” a Dweller near Victoria said, looking thoughtful. “There’s a lot of old hiding places a Dweller could find.”

“Do you believe you both could find them and ask what their stands on this are, and see if they want to fight the Crawler as well?” Victoria enquired.

There were more than a couple words of assent directed at her.

“Did anyone see what happened to Kalin?”

Ilan shifted uncomfortably. “We do not know, Ma’am.”

“What do you mean?”

“Her ship was attacked in the battle,” the Auroran replied mournfully. “I saw the sea claim it, but I do not know if she survived.”

Victoria was silent. She felt awful. She didn’t want to think that Kalin could be dead, but, looking around, she could see that others had seen the same. She looked to Walter; his kind, old face faintly saddened. Ben and Page were looking at each other, an unspoken conversation passing between them. And then she looked to Reaver, whose eyes missed nothing and who was probably judging them more harshly than any god ever would.

“Well?” the taunting look he gave her seemed to say.

She was glad he said nothing.

“I’ll arrange for a squad to be sent out to look for her,” the Princess finally said, determined to go with them when she did. “We have to make sure she’s not hiding somewhere, hurt or in trouble. I don’t want to believe she’s dead, but we won’t know unless we look.”

Victoria knew her words weren’t hopeful, but she didn’t want to give them pretty, painted words like Reaver gave to people. She wanted to give them the truth. She felt they were owed at least that much.

And, at the very least, the others seemed grateful for that.

“All of you should go and rest for the night. See your families, if you can, get healed up and get something to eat. If it’s acceptable to you, we’ll meet here again in a couple days to work out what needs to be done next,” she instructed. _And then we’ll kill this thing for good_.

She watched as, in small groups, the rebels began to leave. A few waved to her while others shouted encouragement to her as they left. Walter, Ben, and Page held back, obviously waiting for her. As Walter tried to get her attention to encourage her to come along with them, she shook her head and murmured that she would be along in a minute. There was something she needed to clear up, first. Walter hesitated, looking between her and Reaver questioningly. Victoria had told him everything that had transpired between them once, and she wondered what he was thinking. After a minute, he nodded and made for the others. Ben and Page were already starting to get into a row, and Walter approached them and put an arm over each of their shoulders as he dragged them to the door. Page snapped at him about it, but went along with it. Ben, on the other hand, tried to get away. It didn’t work for Walter just tightened his grip on him and walked faster, talking merrily in a boisterous voice about how he could do with a nice mug of ale.

Victoria stood there for a moment when the room was finally cleared out of the rebels. All that remained was the two guardsmen who had no choice but to remain at the door, Reaver, and herself. She made her way over to her ex-fiancé; his eyes were closed now, and his insufferably smug expression was marred with a contemptible boredom. With barely a thought, she insinuated herself onto his lap and crossed her legs in a lady-like manner. Victoria was oblivious to the interested looks from the doormen.

“ _What_ are you doing?” Reaver drawled, finally opening his eyes.

“You stole my seat,” Victoria said, pretending she didn’t feel his hands on her waist, “so I decided I would just have to substitute you for one instead.”

“Hmm…possibly one of your better ideas,” he decided, obviously not minding that the two guards were intently watching as he tried to seduce the Princess.

Victoria, on the other hand, had different matters on her mind. “You’re not going to be here when we fight the Crawler, are you?”

Reaver’s hands stilled, one low on her thigh and the other not much higher. “Why do you ask?”

“I assumed you would be taking your _appointment_ in Wraithmarsh early this year,” Victoria told him nonchalantly, though she made a point of lowering her voice just enough to ensure the guards would not hear.

“I was later than usual last year, actually,” he replied flippantly. But there was far too much tension in his body for her to believe he honestly didn’t care.

“Really? …Interesting; that’s a risk I didn’t think you would ever want to take.” She thought a second. “You know, I think I’ve known what was so… _different_ about you for a while now. I just never wanted to admit it. But it still amazes me that nobody else seemed to notice.”

“Everyone is ignorant when money is involved,” Reaver replied dryly, trailing a hand up from her thigh to brush the hair from her neck. “I suppose you will now commence griping at me about how _wrong_ it is of me to do so?”

“No,” she said softly. “I decided I don’t care what you do with your life. You’re an adult. You can make your own decisions.” She stared at her feet, shivering slightly at his touch on her neck. Victoria half-turned to look at him properly. “You didn’t answer my question, though.”

He stopped trying to kiss on her and studied her face a moment. “No. No, I most certainly will _not_ be joining you on your suicide mission.”

“Good,” she said cheerfully. “I didn’t want to worry about keeping an eye on you, anyway.”

“I beg your pardon?” Reaver supplied, looking insulted.

“You have my pardon, now let me stand up.”

“You frigid little minx.”

“Don’t you call me names. I’ll tell my brother on you,” Victoria teased.

“Actually, you’re right: get off of me. You’ve ruined the moment.”

“I tried to.”

~ * ~

Victoria stared woefully at the tea kettle, wondering why the water hadn’t started boiling yet. She pressed a finger to its side, but found the copper was only warm, not hot. She sighed, resigned, and went to find tea leaves.

She’d left Reaver in the throne room and gone to meet with Ben, Walter, and Page in a pub almost immediately. She filled them in on the more important details of what had been happening, saving the ones she’d rather not talk about for when she and Walter were alone, and they’d begun addressing how to best execute Victoria’s plan to defeat the Crawler. It would be difficult, but they had to try…and had to hope the best would happen. They’d spoken for hours, only calling a quits once both Page and Walter were in agreement that it was late and everyone needed to rest. Victoria had stayed behind just long enough to purchase a room for Ben, whose somewhat inebriated state was working against him in his quest to…drink more ale. Eventually, she’d wandered her way through the dark city streets, and reluctantly returned to the castle.

Her mind, however, was too full of thoughts to allow her to sleep, and so she’d elected to make a cup of tea before deciding on her next move.

Just as she knelt down to search the lower shelves of a large cabinet for her tea, she heard someone enter the kitchen and looked up just in time to see Logan walk in. He drew up suddenly upon realizing she was there, eyes widening slightly and his expression indicated he was considering leaving and coming back later. An awkward silence filled the air between them, neither moving for a very long minute. The desire for tea overwhelmed that awkwardness, however, and Victoria resumed rummaging as Logan made his way to the rack full of over-sized mugs. (Certainly, tea time saw them using proper tea cups, but middle of the night tea and coffee runs were _not_ tea time and so they had need of heavier duty equipment.)

“Cook still leaves your tea on the next to lowest shelf,” Logan observed almost casually as he removed his mug.

Victoria pulled the jar out before standing and pulling the jar of Logan’s favourite tea out, as well. Amused, she replied, “Do you think he’s noticed I’ve grown taller?”

“Old habits and all.”

They fell silent as they added tea leaves to their mugs and Victoria added in some of the finally-boiling water. As they both waited, their eyes met. For the first time in well over a year, there was no animosity between them. The silence was almost companionable. Victoria smiled to herself as she fetched the milk. It was like they were a team again. _A team_. That didn’t sound so bad, at all.

Maybe she’d been right, after all…maybe, together, they could actually win.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More than a thousand at the gates I saw  
> Out of the Heavens rained down, who angrily  
> Were saying, "Who is this that without death  
> Goes through the kingdom of the people dead?"  
> ~Dante's Divine comedy (Inferno; Canto 8 Lines 82-85)


	25. Last Daze

Footsteps echoed loudly off the stones, light and slow, masking the soft clicking of nails against the floor. A single candle illuminated the darkness. The girl moved carefully ahead, knowing there was a ledge somewhere off to her side. As she stepped further inside, the tomb grew brighter courtesy of the multitudes of candles that always kept the main room lit.

Two kists took up most of the floor space before a large, monolithic statue that seemed to strongly resemble Theresa. The polished stone and gold glimmered faintly in the flickering light like some partially-hidden, exotic treasure. Victoria sat down before the left-most coffin, placing her candle beside her on the dusty floor. Nero stretched out on her other side, yawning as he lay down. Almost reverently, she wiped the dust from the nameplate before her. Sniffling slightly—a by-product of the dust, or so she would claim—Victoria wiped her fingers on her dressing gown and sat back to stare at her father’s tomb.

“Things are bad, Daddy,” she said softly, unsure how to truly explain the situation. “Really bad. There was a rebellion, and then…and now I don’t know what to do. I’m not the Hero Albion deserves…and maybe I’m not the Hero I was meant to be. I’ve never felt so helpless.”

_Hobbe Cave spread out before her, thinly illuminated by a few guttering torches. The little girl curled up closer to the centre of the cage she had locked herself into. She’d just wanted to be like her daddy…but now the hobbes wanted to get her. Her fear was crippling and tears streamed down her dirty, round face._

_And then the screaming began._

_It started far off and grew steadily closer. She was so scared. Was some new monster coming for her? She didn’t know. But, soon enough, all the hobbes were gone and a familiar face loomed out of the darkness._

_“Daddy!” she exclaimed as he broke the lock and wrenched the cage door open. She crawled out, wanting him to hold her, but received a surprise when he forcefully grabbed her shoulders._

_“What were you thinking?!” the Hero King exploded, shaking her slightly. His face creased in worry and anger and something she’d never seen on her father’s face before: fear. And there was something else, something that had been utterly alien to her at the time, but that was now an expression she’d seen often; relief twisted with exhaustion, which seemed to deepen the wrinkles on her father’s face. “Don’t you ever run away again. Do you hear me, Victoria?_ Never _again!” He pulled her close and held her as if he would never let go. “I was so worried.”_

_“I’m sorry, Daddy,” she told him, crying still. In that moment, she never wanted to run away again._

Victoria brushed her hair from her face. “Well, maybe I have once or twice before. I wish you were here right now. You would know what to do. How to help everyone.” She broke off before spitting out: “If you were here, this never would have happened. I’m so sorry…I’m so sorry….”

Pulling her legs to her chest, she rested her forehead upon her knees. It was so peaceful inside the tomb, despite how much she was worrying about the coming day. She could almost _feel_ her parents there with her. It gave her an idea.

She had read once that there were some in the Old Kingdom that had believed that one’s ancestors lived beyond death. They followed those who were still living, guiding them and answering their prayers when the spirits believed those prayers would be of the most benefit. Victoria had thought long and hard on it at the time, before deciding she disliked the idea. The dead were meant to be allowed to rest, lest they became hollow men, cursed to roam the world until their wisps could find peace. But, now? Now she wasn’t so certain. But she was, however, desperate. And she saw no reason to not give it a try.

 _Mother, Father, I don’t know if you can hear me,_ she thought as she poured her heart and soul into the words, _but, more than anything, I require your guidance._

~ * ~

Logan sat before his chessboard, not really seeing it. The little black and white pieces were frozen mid-game, though there was no other player to be seen.

He merely sat there, accepting his lack of thought. The last month had passed all too quickly. And he’d tried—he’d _tried_ to be the King Albion needed. But it just didn’t seem to ever work. No one wanted to hear the word of a failed King when his little sister could give them what they wanted. He couldn’t help but wonder what Victoria had that he didn’t. Jealousy twisted his gut and filled his mouth with bitterness. Had he been born a Hero, things would not be as they were now. He would have been able to save Albion and Aurora. He wouldn’t be considered a failure. The very thought pained him. Would his people love him as they loved _her_? Would Sparrow have taken more care with him? Would his father have ensured that he was not a frail, lanky boy, but as strong of body as of mind? Would his parents have given him a choice to have a life outside of that of a King?

…would he even be alive today? To die for Albion was something he had always considered a great honour. Something he was more than willing to do. He loved his Albion—it was the spouse and child he had never had, but which he was tied to nonetheless—and now he was being asked to step away? To give it all up? How could he do such a thing? He had _bled_ for this country; he had worked through illness and fatigue and depression to do what was necessary to keep Albion alive. He couldn’t turn his back now.

 _What does she know about ruling?_ a little voice hissed bitterly. _Nothing! She’s naught but a pampered child, oblivious to what truly needs to be done! She cannot work as I have!_

 _Exactly_ , replied what he would have liked to call his “voice of reason”. _We failed the test. Our time is over. The King of Albion is no more; it is time for the Queen to lead us through the darkness._

The mantle clock’s ticking was loud and monotonous—cutting into the sudden silence of his mind—and, as Logan finally decided to move a chess piece, he kept his dark eyes trained on the clock’s filigreed minute hand. Things were going to change the next day. Whether they won this fight or lost it, things would change; Albion would never go back to the way it had been before.

And, the day after, he would go into exile…never to be seen again.

_Tick. Tick. Tick._

Logan watched the minutes tick by but could think of nothing to do but wait.

~ * ~

 _I’ve done some bad things, I know. I’ve hurt people needlessly and—_ the Princess hesitated in her thoughts, the memory of a kiss and of a passion-fuelled embrace that made her weak, momentarily driving thought from her mind. She stroked Nero’s fur to calm herself. _And I’ve been selfish._

~ * ~

The Cock in the Crown pub was much more empty and solemn than usual. In fact, it probably hadn’t been this empty since before it had opened. The bartender and barmaids cleaned up at a morose pace, their minds far from their tasks. Other than those few with a fondness for liquor that even the threat of death and destruction could not assuage, only a small group of men sat around a rickety old table. They wore the red and gold of Albion’s militia, but none of them, at that moment, bore the pride that came with wearing the uniform.

Ben passed around the latest round, listening as one of his company slowly spoke of their family. It was a trend most of the people at the table picked up on as stories of peoples’ families were passed around like loaves of bread at a banquet. Funny, but only a couple hours previous, it was all laughter and amusing war stories. Until they noticed the time.

 _Everyone_ noticed the time.

And then it was only silence and mournful stories about those that were missed. Sons. Daughters. Parents. Spouses. Lovers.  Ben had none of these—well, he had had lovers but none at that precise moment. His parents were dead. His brothers—Jason, William, and Quentin—were dead. Well…William’s death was still a bit of a mystery, but the fact still remained: Ben had no home or family to worry about. He had friends, yes, and he secretly worried mightily for them, but he had no special someone who would sit and fret and hope he made it home safely. And…and that was okay, wasn’t it?

Sometimes he really wondered.

He’d teased Page about it when they’d been released from prison. _“Vicky worried about me. What about you?” “Please, Finn. Why would_ I _be worried about_ you _?” “So…no ‘Welcome back, Ben Finn’ kiss?”_ She’d just given him a deadly glare and walked off in a huff. How nice it was to be appreciated.

“Look, lads,” one of his fellow soldiers teased, “the great Ben Finn…moping. Who’s she this time?”

“Definitely not your sister, mate,” the blond retorted cheekily, earning a couple half-hearted chuckles from his friends.

The laughter died down quickly; not because anyone was offended, but because it felt _wrong_. Like the country was already in mourning and the slightest sound of happiness broke the sanctity of it.

And there was nothing to do but sit and talk and wait for the minutes to pass.

~ * ~

_But I don’t want to run away this time. I want to stand up and fight. I want to prove that I’m worthy of being a Hero…and I want to save Albion._

~ * ~

Maps couldn’t speak and plans can’t formulate themselves. Sometimes that fact infuriated Page.

Page stood, arms braced against the old table as she stared down at her maps and documents. The rough wood bit into her palms, but she didn’t mind. What she _did_ mind was that she couldn’t think. She was too frustrated to think. Thankfully, there wasn’t a clock in the old rebel headquarters…or, at the very least, not one in her personal room.

Conflict raged within her. On one hand, she was angry; angry at having to help the man who was the start of Albion’s problems and angry with Victoria for asking her to do so. Who did that little _Princess_ think she was to ask them and Logan to work together?! But, on the other hand, Page _had_ vowed to protect Albion. She refused to go back on such an important promise because of a personal vendetta. If she turned her back on the country now, it would make her just as much of a liar as the men she sought to overthrow. She refused to be thought of as such, both for personal pride and because she cared too deeply for the people of Albion.

That didn’t mean that she trusted Logan, though. And that didn’t mean that, as soon as this was over—Page had every bit of confidence in her men’s abilities that they would survive—that she wasn’t going to keep a very close eye on Victoria. After all, things about the Princess just weren’t adding up right. She wormed her way out of trouble too easily, and she was ahead of them just enough for it to be eerie. Not to mention how many things kept ending badly around her. For things to line up so perfectly, Victoria either had to be a seer or involved in some seriously shady dealings. To hell with Finn’s claims that skill was the reason; it simply wasn’t possible for someone to be so lucky without outside interference…wasn’t it?

Page’s grip on the table tightened as her thoughts branched off. Not to mention that the Princess was uncomfortably close to Reaver. Close enough to make Page’s skin feel uncomfortable and sullied.

The Crawler was coming, yes, but Page wasn’t as worried as most were. Monsters she could handle. It was the weirdness surrounding the castle that she wanted to get to the bottom of.

~ * ~

_I won’t stand to the side anymore. But I need your help, or, at the very least, your strength. Please protect us and watch over us in battle. Help us reach victory as safely as possible._

~ * ~

Walter stood on the battlements like a statue, staring out over the dark water. The crisp air was refreshing and kept him awake better than a steaming mug of coffee. But, though his mind was sharp and clear, he felt tired, as though a malignant cloud had descended upon his muscles to constantly leech them of energy.

“Ah, Sir Walter!” a perpetually warm voice greeted.

Walter started slightly, jerked from his dark musings. “ _Balls_ to you, Jasper. Were you intending on making me fall?”

“Good heavens, no,” the old butler replied, quickly peering over the battlement wall and down into the abyss. He straightened up, fidgeting with his white gloves. “Have you, mayhaps, seen Victoria? She is not in her bed.”

Walter shook his head once. “No. Don’t worry so much, old friend; I doubt she’s gone very far.”

They stood in silence a moment, the air heavy and oppressive with some unseen energy. For some reason, the horizon seemed unprecedentedly dark. There were no stars and the moonlight didn’t reflect off the ocean there. Strange, for the night was clear and the moon was bright.

“It really is coming,” Jasper murmured as though he didn’t want to believe it.

“Yes,” Walter replied. _I can feel it_. He paused before heartily clapping Jasper on the back. “Relax, Jasper. I’ll see to it that neither the Crawler nor any bats cause you any harm.”

Jasper gave him a shrewd look and said dryly, “I feel better already.”

Inwardly, he was pleased. He rather loathed bats.

~ * ~

Victoria hesitated. _I love you both_.

And, with that, she rose to her feet and she and Nero left the mausoleum. And she said goodnight.

And goodbye.

~ * ~

In the heart of the Spire, a single figure sat before an old, weathered desk. Her living quarters were Spartan, bare but for the necessities. Theresa sat before a fire, her small hands barely resting on the worn wood of her desk.

An unnatural frustration had taken hold over her mind.

Her cards were spread across most of the desk in an unfamiliar pattern, but they and the runes scattered beside them said the same thing: Albion’s future was uncertain. Theresa didn’t understand how this could be so. She had Seen this, many decades ago, and the most obvious paths had been perfectly clear. Now, everything was a blur.

Sparrow would have found amusement in this—a blind woman struggling to See—she was certain. But her trouble was real, and potentially dangerous. _Perhaps_ , she thought, _because a different path was chosen, the future is in flux_.

It was possible, she supposed; as possible as anything else she had foreseen. After all, the future was always in motion. But Theresa was unaccustomed to waiting for answers. She would try, though. The future would reveal itself shortly.

And, like the rest of Albion, the seeress could only wait.


	26. The Battle For Albion

Thunder boomed and lightning cracked the sky. Houses collapsed to rubble from strange, preternatural blasts as people ran, screaming, through the streets. Or…that’s how the day should have begun. The reality couldn’t have been more different.

The sky was a bright, robin egg blue; soft, pale wisps of cloud drifted lazily across its expanse like leaves on a still pond. The air was a curious but pleasant mix of hot and cold that made it seem like the perfect autumnal day. Perfect…but for the fact that the country was amazingly static. From Oakfield to Mistpeak not a single breeze did blow. From Westcliff to Brightwood there wasn’t a single bird that dared sing its song. Even the legendary beasties of Thorndeep forest, Miremoor, and Wraithmarsh seemed to have hidden themselves away, waiting, watching and the Rosewood lay silent under its legion of roses and thorned vines.

Ships sat moored in dead water, their reefed sails like inverted snowdrifts. Shops, stalls, and parks were empty while homes, pubs, and inns were boarded up and locked down. The whores and the homeless had even deserted the streets, taking refuge wherever people would take them. The only form of movement came from the guards and soldiers who patrolled the desolate streets. Their scarlet and gold—and violet and silver—uniforms stood out on the empty streets like beacons in the night.

The courtiers had deserted the castle grounds, which Victoria had noted when she looked out her bedroom window that morning. She found the sudden lack of movement disturbing.

She spent a lot of time looking out the window as she waited, rubbing Nero’s ears and watching the darkness coiling about the very edge of the horizon. It was nerve-wracking, really; there were far too many ill meanings to silence and stillness for the Princess to find comfort in it. _Oh, Avo, I can still hear it whispering in my head._

And so they sat, the girl and her dog, waiting in the window as they stared out at the beautiful autumn day.

It wasn’t until noon that things began to change.

The sky began to darken. Clouds had started to roll in only an hour previously, but they couldn’t be blamed for the sky’s sudden darkness.  It was as though it had magically become twilight. _How is the sun still out in this darkness?_ the Princess wondered as she slowly rose to her feet.

But it was the sign she had been waiting for.

Victoria bolted from her chambers, her gown tangling about her ankles. She paid it no heed. She looked out every other window she came to as she ran, confusing poor Nero with all the constant starting and stopping and changing directions. However, the collie did seem to realise that was important for he kept even with her as Victoria burst into the war room.

“It’s coming!” Victoria all but gasped as the room’s occupants turned in her general direction.

It took her a moment to realise that the reason everyone was staring was because she was still dressed in only her night things.

Blushing faintly, she added, “Thought you ought to know.”

Walter, who had been speaking to Logan at the map table, was the first to recover. He shot Ben a don’t-you-dare-say-anything-Finn look as the blond slowly set the chair he’d been reclining on back onto four legs.

“Are you certain?” Logan enquired, clearly somewhat bothered by his sister’s sudden lack of modesty. She had a feeling that he was silently wondering why, if the world was near ending, Victoria couldn’t just put some clothes on. _Poor thing_.

“Yes,” the Princess nodded, waving off her butler as he attempted to offer her his coat. “I saw it. The sky’s getting darker and I can see the Darkness growing thicker on the horizon.”

Ben muttered an oath. “And here I thought we might get a bit of a lie-in. Doesn’t _anyone_ have the decency to wait until it’s late to attack?”

“Shut up, Ben,” Walter growled, more out of habit than anything else. He looked a bit thinner than usual, Victoria decided; almost gaunt. She longed to ask what was wrong with him as the old soldier turned, almost meditatively, back to the map table. But Victoria held her tongue as Logan murmured something to Walter, earning a slow nod of agreement from Walter.

Victoria couldn’t help but wonder what they were thinking as she said, “I doubt we have much time left.”

“Only a few hours, if my estimation is right,” Walter agreed gruffly.

“Start deploying the soldiers,” Logan instructed to Ben and Walter. “We must be prepared for any eventuality should your assumptions be incorrect.”

~ * ~

It was over the next couple of hours that reports of incidents began to come in. One of the few ships that had elected to go out and monitor the Crawler’s approach had gone missing. People in the more outlying regions of the country were reporting strange dreams and homicidal (and, apparently, suicidal) changes in their friends and families. The behavioural changes spread like ripples in a still pond, branching out to reach every corner of Albion. They soon found fear was the most prevalent amongst those who were more inclined to express how they had been affected.

Ben and Walter had it easy when it came to calming the soldiers. After all, the militia was trained to keep calm under extremely stressful situations. If the soldiers were really afraid, Victoria thought they hid it extremely well. The mercenaries, on the other hand…not so much. She could see on Saker’s face just how frustrated he was with his men’s lack of control when it came to their emotions. Victoria was glad she wouldn’t be near Saker when his short temper finally reached its end.

 _Saker’s not the only one with a short temper_ , Victoria thought, her mind wandering to Page.

The revolutionary had been worryingly tense. Page didn’t want to talk about it, though, so Victoria didn’t really want to breach the subject. Instead, she left Page to ready the rebels and strategize on her own. Luckily, despite Page’s distance, Sabine and Ilan were bloodthirsty enough to inspire a bit of confidence.

“There,” Jasper announced, jerking her from her thoughts. He’d begun to help her dress after she’d realised just how difficult it would be to fight the Crawler in a dressing gown.

Victoria eyed her reflection warily as if it might bite her. Her clothes were mightily similar to what she’d worn in Aurora, she realised with a start. Those strange short trousers had found their way out of the depths of her trunk but, instead of an undershirt, Jasper had managed to get her into some sort of doublet-like vest. It was odd, seeing herself dressed all in black and, when she combined that with the worn, red leather coat Jasper had rustled up for her, she found she looked like…like….

“I look like father,” she murmured awkwardly.

“Yes, I thought it was a rather dashingly rogue, renegade Hero look,” Jasper replied merrily.

“What would I do without you?”

“I’m not certain, but I _do_ doubt you would own a single clean sock.”

Victoria smiled but quickly sobered as she said, “You should probably return to the Sanctuary.”

Jasper bid her a farewell as Victoria, fastening her weapons about herself, left Nero with the elderly butler. She knew neither would return to the Sanctuary, but she didn’t want them to follow her, nor did she want to be distracted by the thought of the Crawler getting to either of them. Besides, as much as Jasper and Walter got along, they had _very_ different ideas on how to keep her safe and she knew they could easily get into a row about it at the worst of times. She hated when “ _mummy and daddy_ ” fought.

Granted, once she’d returned to the war room and realised there was nothing really left to argue about, she felt a bit silly for worrying.

It was quickly agreed upon that Page and Saker would handle Bowerstone Industrial while Sabine and Ilan took the wreck that was the remains of the Old Quarter. Logan and a group of soldiers were to hold the market as Walter and Ben remained with the Princess. Everyone else was to be divided up accordingly. Victoria liked the plan; it was simple, easy to remember, and left her plenty of room to improvise when something invariably went wrong.

 _“Improvise”_ , Victoria thought with a scoff. _Bloody_ hell _, I’m beginning to sound like Reaver_.

Thinking about it only made the deviant’s absence even more disappointing. Perhaps it had been childish of her to consider he’d grow a conscience overnight and decide to help them. But there was a small part of her that ached painfully with every second he deigned to not show his face. _Don’t focus on it. You don’t even_ want _to see him right now_.

It was true to some degree ( _bloody distracting pirate_ ) and so Victoria tried to keep her mind on task. It was hard, though. And it certainly didn’t help that they weren’t covering any new strategies. Only Logan, Walter, and herself remained in the war room by then, and the hour was growing later. She had to keep her head in the game. She could do this if she just _kept focus!_

And then the gods decided to screw around with her once more.

In hindsight, Walter decided they should have guessed what was going to happen. Or…at least that something similar would happen.

Jasper hurried anxiously into the room, looking as if he were trying to outrun the wrath of Skorm himself. He rushed up to the Princess. Suddenly, Walter didn’t feel so confident.

“Y-Your Highness?” the butler began, sounding flustered. “Princess?”

“Good lord, are you _all_ still _alive_ , then? And here I had gotten my hopes up,” a boredly cynical voice drawled from the door, sounding almost disappointed.  “I suppose I _am_ early to the party, after all.”

Walter couldn’t tell if his pulse had sped up or stopped all together. Twin sensations of hot and cold ran down his spine and he realised that the man in the doorway was indeed Reaver. _Balls. What is he doing here?_

He cast a surreptitious glance around at his fellows, unsure just how well Reaver paid attention to others. Logan didn’t seem too bothered or even surprised by the industrialist’s sudden and unexpected appearance (wasn’t he meant to be far away somewhere?) but Jasper was uncomfortably anxious. Walter’s gaze moved expectantly to Victoria.

The Princess just stood there, facing the door with her expression hidden from his view. Like a sleepwalker, Victoria started for Reaver, who merely looked down at her with something like challenge in his dark eyes. She stopped before him, swaying slightly on her feet, and Walter’s breath caught as she suddenly drew her hand back to strike him. Neither Logan nor Jasper had a chance to rebuke her, though; before her hand made contact—before they could so much as _blink_ —Reaver had Victoria’s wrist firmly in his grip.

“Now, now, Princess, that isn’t very nice, is it?” he mocked.

Victoria snarled something under her breath and Reaver’s reply was equally hard to hear.

Walter’s mind was whirling. He’d listened to the Princess’s stories, of course, about what had happened, but…Victoria and Reaver—did they realise just how they looked together? They were like two planets caught in the same gravitational field; orbiting each other but each keeping just enough distance to not destroy the other. And—and this thought _really_ gave Walter chills—yet they also reminded him of two predators vying for dominance over the other; neither content to just rip the other’s throat out, they seemed to need for the other to be on their knees, begging for death, before they would be satisfied. It was a side of Victoria he’d never seen before, and wasn’t quite certain he was happy it existed.

That being said, the chemistry they projected was astounding. Logan didn’t look happy.

“ _Why_ are you here?” the Princess snapped, wrenching her hand free. Her hand flexed as if she desperately wanted to keep trying to hit him until she landed a blow.

“Well now, Princess, after discovering you had _bullied_ all of Albion’s ships into your service, I couldn’t just go home, could I? How utterly _boring_ that would be! So I’ve come to offer you my… _services_ in _any_ way you see fit to use them,” Reaver replied, spreading his arms in a placating manner, as if to say ‘voila! Here I am!’

Despite that he was trying to look sincere and as if there _wasn’t_ an innuendo hidden in his words, Victoria blushed.

Unfortunately for Reaver, Logan caught it, too. “Your services are no longer required.”

Much to Walter’s surprise, Victoria turned to her brother with a mischievously thoughtful look. “Oh, I don’t know, brother. We could use another gun; doesn’t _Page_ need some extra help?”

It was a rhetorical question, and Walter absently wondered who was really being punished: Logan for being controlling, Reaver for being…himself, or Page for reasons unknown. Overall, Walter thought the idea was great; _finally_ someone would be babysitting Reaver.

The set of the industrialist’s jaw suggested he would rather swallow a batch of chemical waste from one of his factories as Logan agreed with his little sister.

“You said you would help in ‘any’ way we saw fitting, did you not?” Logan added looking pointedly at Reaver.

 _And this_ , Walter thought _, is why no one should get between feuding royals_.

He almost felt sorry for the smarmy bastard. Well… _almost_.

~ * ~

A roiling black miasma had blackened out the last dregs of sunset. Those out in the streets couldn’t help but look up at it frequently. What was going on, they wondered, that would make the sky act like that? What was so powerful that it could blot out the sky?

As it was, Reaver didn’t particularly _care_ about something so trivial as the _sky_ ; he was a bit more preoccupied with the behaviour of the _ground_.

Shadows had begun to form, disentangling themselves from the damp and dirty cobbles. Their ebony claws gouged at the stones as they drew themselves up and launched themselves at the poorly prepared men in the streets. As per usual, they ignored Reaver. Most days, he would have been content to return the favour, but he _was_ stuck with Page and when would he ever get another Crown-sanctioned excuse to mess with the little girl’s head?

Page was brutish when she fought; Reaver had noticed that when she had fought in his Wheel of Misfortune. She was as graceless as the common mercenary. And, _honestly_ , didn’t she know how to properly swing a sword? He tracked her movements as he drew his beloved Dragonstomper and fired several times in quick succession.

The shadows around the brusque beauty exploded on impact _. I say, if I don’t make this look good, I don’t know who does_ , Reaver decided with a self-satisfied smile.

Page was staring in disbelief. “You…? Why would—”

She broke off, occupied by another group of shadows.

Reaver had his own cluster of monsters to deal with and they were _not_ happy that he had turned against them. But, really, when had he _ever_ been on their side? Switching between his “borrowed” sword and his Dragonstomper, the Hero of Skill wove easily between enemies, taunting and slaughtering them without mercy.

This? This was _fun_. This was what he lived for. Well…this and sex and revenge, though those all had a time and many places. He lost himself when he fought; everything was a haze of adrenalin and bullets and clashing swords and blood. A river of red.

The shadows that blocked his sword quickly fell prey to his pistol. However…there was one shadow that went after him with a particular vengeance. It gave him _quite_ the workout as he blocked and dodged, not finding time to _shoot_ the annoying creature.

“Ooh, touched a nerve, have I?” Reaver crooned mockingly to it as he attempted to behead it. “Was one of them _close_ to you? Your lover, perhaps? Well, if they _gave_ as good as they got, they might still be here, hmm?”

The long-standing question of if the shadows actually _could_ hear him was answered as the shadow lashed out at him, slicing into Reaver’s arm with his phantom blade. A patch of crimson seeped through the once-pure white fabric of his most expensive suit as Reaver retaliated by slicing the shadow cleanly in two. When would they learn than insulting his clothing was insulting him? The suit would never be able to return to perfect condition again. _What a waste_.

Shaking his head slightly in pseudo-disappointment, he took a step back, intending on walking away and looking for something else to kill—after all, wasn’t this meant to be a _battle?_ Reaver didn’t get far. He had backed into something and he whirled, surprised but somehow _not_ when his and Page’s swords clashed against each other.

The little revolutionary was surprised, that was obvious. She was also getting tired. Her chest heaved with each heavy breath and her sweat-drenched dreadlocks were in disarray. He had to admit, her bloodlust was invigorating.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. Then Page’s grip changed and her eyes narrowed, but it was too late. Her face was an open book to him; Reaver had known what she intended to do the moment the silly girl had had the thought to do it. She moved to strike him, but, before she could even really react, Reaver batted away Page’s sword with his own as if it were nothing but a toy.

He laughed, a soft, dangerous sound that was a warning in itself. “You’re attacking me? And against the orders of your Princess? My, my, and here I thought you two were _so close_ ,” he taunted, every syllable dripping with mockery. “Do you really think you can kill me, love? Or…are you actually intending on ravaging me in some other manner? I must say, I’m partial to the later, myself, though now might not be the very best of times.”

As if to verify his words, a long, drawn-out scream of agony sounded from far-off, only to be cut off much too soon by the sound of falling rubble. Though Reaver heard it, he was completely unaffected by it. It was as though he and Page were completely separate from the battle. And speaking of the vixen….

She swung at him again, throwing her weight behind it, and again Reaver batted it aside. But Page wasn’t one for giving up. As she tried and failed to harm him, she snarled, “It doesn’t matter how it makes the Princess _feel_ , I’m doing what’s right for Albion in the long run.”

“In the long run?” Reaver echoed, torn between disbelief at the absurdity of it all and the humour at how pathetic it was. “My _dear_ girl, do use your common sense. The wee Crawler beastie is here _now_ , and you’re more worried about killing me when I’ve only attempted to fatally _wound_ you a couple times. Your judgment is _sorely_ lacking, isn’t it? It’s not as though _I’m_ going to destroy Albion.”

But sometimes it certainly sounded like fun to see how far he could go before he did.

Page scoffed. “The fact that you exist is killing Albion.”

Oh, how naïve she was. The next time she tried to strike him, Reaver caught her wrist. He twisted it sharply, making her sword fall from her grasp to clatter on the cobbles below as he roughly pushed her up against the dirty façade of a building. Had he tried this on the Princess, Victoria would have played submissive until he relaxed enough for her to head butt him or for her to knee him in the groin. Page did not. She struggled wildly, not conceding when he tightened his grip nor when she realised she couldn’t get away; for some inane reason that was utterly lost on him, she thought she could fight through it. What made this little revolutionary—and Victoria, for that matter—so annoyingly hopeful?

“If you wanted me to have you against a wall, you could have simply asked me,” he purred, enjoying Page’s reaction when she tensed against him.

“You—!”

“But while I have you here,” Reaver continued as if she’d not tried to interrupt him, “allow me to let you in on a little secret: I’m not going _anywhere_. You think I’m as bad as the Crawler? I’m not; I’m _much_ worse and no matter how you fight, no matter what you do, and no matter how you _squirm_ , you will _never_ drive me away. Feel free to declare war on me once this is over, my dear, but, for now, I _suggest_ you play nicely.”

“Why don’t you just go to hell?” Page growled, glaring at him. She kept trying to kick, but it did her no good; there just wasn’t enough distance between them.

“Already tried that, my little Page. The weather didn’t quite agree with me,” he quipped in reply with a somewhat roguish smirk. “Now, should I let you go or are you just going to attack me again?”

Bowerstone Industrial was crumbling around them. Buildings were collapsing and knocking in factory walls. One of the river’s channels was completely dammed. The dead littered the streets, becoming a hindrance to those still fighting. Page and Reaver had noticed none of this while locked in their power play, but even they could hear the sound of metal grinding against stone that was clearly a footstep behind them.

Reaver froze, body tensed like a cat ready to pounce. Something about the set of Page’s expression informed him that she could see what was behind him. Maybe he could shake her up just a little bit more? With a casual calm born of a high-stress lifestyle, he let go of one of her arms, glancing towards Page’s pistol as he subtly reached for his own.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Page replied dryly, pulling her gun up to her chest and cocking it. “I think it could be much more beneficial if you got a shot in the face.”

“Promises, promises,” he murmured, bolting to the side.

They both fired, blowing the head off the bird-man-like thing that had been about to attack.

It was around then that they realised just how over-run the city around them was.

“As much as I would love to continue fighting with you,” Page told him, obviously furious with herself, “I think I would rather kill these things more.”

“I—”

An explosion that seemed to rattle the entire city cut him off. They both whirled around. An odd feeling was settling into his stomach, one that Reaver hadn’t felt since Victoria had so unceremoniously dropped in on his meeting with the Shadow Court. In his waking hours, he could never give name to that feeling which was, indeed, dread.

 _The market…_.

~ * ~

The explosion had been completely accidental. Well, okay, not _completely_ ; Victoria _had_ been aiming for the barrel of gunpowder, but how was she to know there were a dozen more barrels hidden nearby? But the calamitous _boom_ and the huge plume of flame she’d created helped thin out the shadows and bird statues enough so she and Logan were no longer fighting back-to-back.

Ben, who was fighting a ways off, whooped in approval as Walter tossed her a thumbs-up and, laughing, said something to the younger soldier.

The battle was progressing smoother than she’d hoped—though she couldn’t imagine what it was like in other parts of the city—but she couldn’t help but wonder why the Crawler hadn’t shown itself. Was it content to wear down at them mentally? Was it waiting for them to grow weak and tired before striking? Or…was it waiting for something _else_?

A group of bird statues, led by one of the pseudo-angels, forced the foursome into an alleyway.

As they backed further into it, Victoria called out, “Does anyone see a way out of here?”

“Directly behind us,” Logan replied succinctly. “It looks to lead out near the square.”

“You two go on without us; we’ll fend them off,” Walter told them, his tone full of almost fatherly concern as he fired at their approaching attackers.

Victoria didn’t like that idea. “But—”

“Oh, go on, Vicky,” Ben said with a dramatic sigh. “If we can’t handle a few of these bird brains, we don’t deserve to be in the army.”

As if to prove his point, Ben blew the head off a statue with Vanessa—his beloved rifle—and grinned as the statue collapsed to a pile of old metal and stone.

As Walter complimented his shot, Victoria and Logan exchanged questioning looks. It was a sibling thing, and Victoria could tell that, even though she was against it, Logan was all for it. She nodded to her brother once, giving in.

“Be careful, you two,” she told them before she and Logan escaped the alleyway.

They didn’t get very far before agony erupted through Victoria’s mind. She bit back a scream, clutching at her head as though it would burst apart if she let go.

“ _You rule over the graveyard!_ ” the Crawler shrieked through her mind, his fury pouring through her as countless images of the dead passed before her eyes. “ _Is that what you wanted?! The darkness has only to swallow you whole!_ ”

And then it was gone. Victoria hadn’t even had time to successfully scream for him to leave her alone. The pain, the visions, all of it just vanished and she found herself staring into her brother’s face.

“Are you alright?” he asked, rarely expressed concern showing on his face.

“Quite,” Victoria muttered, tears of pain catching in the corner of her eyes. With a bit more urgency, she added, “The Crawler’s here.” _I think we made him mad…_.

“Come; we should prepare the soldiers in the square.”

He put a hand on her shoulder as if to tell her it was alright if she couldn’t go on. But Victoria nodded determinedly, anxious to get it over with. She wasn’t going to sit this out over on measly headache. She’d never forgive herself if they failed because of her.

The square, when they reached it, was surprisingly empty. Oddly quiet, as well; as if an invisible blanket was muffling every sound that came into it.

“Where _is_ everyone?” Victoria wondered aloud.

Instead of answering, Logan gave a startled yelp that sent Victoria whirling around. The Crawler had appeared in front of Logan, looking as pale and _wrong_ as something found in the dark depths of an ancient cave. Before Victoria could take so much as a step towards them, the Crawler had grasped her brother’s throat and somehow—some _way_ —crawled _into_ Logan.

Victoria was too horrified to scream. Even when Logan finally turned toward her, red-eyed and wraith-like, she could only back away. Her mind was locked in denial, refusing to accept what was happening.

“This land is _ours_ ,” her brother told her. But it wasn’t his voice anymore: it was the Crawler’s.

“ _No_. Logan, you can fight it,” Victoria all-but pleaded as she backed away from his approaching form.

Logan seemed to flicker momentarily as if he were fighting to regain control. But, if he was, it didn’t work.

The Crawler seemed amused. “No use, child.”

Victoria narrowed her eyes, fury taking over her. “I thought I told you to _leave my brother alone!_ ”

He smiled at her, a twisted, evil smile that unnerved her to the core, and he vanished. The Princess stayed on her guard. The world itself had not returned to normal and she doubted the Crawler was afraid of her, which, in turn, had her convinced that the Crawler wasn’t _really_ gone. He had to be here…watching…waiting….

“Princess?” Walter called as he and Ben reached the square.

“Don’t!” she shouted. The urgency of her tone was just barely enough to freeze them in their tracks and to keep them out of the square. “Stay back! It’s still here.”

“What’s going on?” Ben wondered aloud.

“Something’s not right here.”

Senses in a feverish overdrive, Victoria strained her ears for any sign or warning. Ultimately, it came down to how well she knew her brother’s fighting style that saved her. He’d never been good at sneak attacks or spontaneous combat…all she’d needed was the right sign. Directly behind her, she heard a half-dragged footstep. Victoria jumped forward and to the right, her muscles tingling pleasantly as she turned the leap out of range into a roll that propelled her to her feet.

She heard Ben swear as she turned to face her possessed brother.

He was still smiling as he attacked her. Victoria, somehow, managed to block his sabre before it sliced into her chest. But she couldn’t convince herself to fight back. The Crawler may have been possessing him, but he was still her brother; her Logan. She may have loved and hated him all at once, but she never wished him dead.

“What are you hoping to accomplish? Do you, too, wish to join your loved ones in the graveyard?” the Crawler taunted as she continued blocking and dodging.

“Why are you doing this?” she demanded to know, unable to raise her voice above a whisper. _Why are you trying to make me kill my brother?_

The smiled faded. Using Logan’s most serious voice, the Crawler replied, “You have done terrible things. Did you think I would not notice? Did you think I would allow them?”

Victoria’s blood seemed to have turned to ice, momentarily freezing her. That lapse nearly cost her as, cackling in demented joy, he tried to kill her once more.

It was time to stop playing. The only way she was going to be able to save Logan, was if the Crawler died. Walter and Ben, now cut off from them by a glowing violet barrier, couldn’t do it. The militia, had any of them been there, wouldn’t have been able to do it. So it would be her…and she would have it no other way.

The Crawler seemed vaguely surprised when she began attacking him with vigour. Her slashes were precise—surgical, almost—aimed to injure and not to kill despite their brutality. Before she could actually make contact, however, the Crawler had vanished again.

He reappeared to her left, splitting the ground with waves of black energy that spread across the ground like spider webs. Victoria instinctively dodged, not allowing the spell to connect.

Adrenalin filled her veins with a somewhat heady sensation as Victoria moved to counterstrike. She got her chance when, having danced around the energy, she saw him drop his guard fractionally. Victoria pulled a couple of fake slashes to his stomach before aiming a well-placed kick to his head. It landed perfectly. Logan had never been good with tricks like that and she was glad to see that the Crawler now felt the effects of that weakness.

However, things went south when, starting to feel slightly more confident that she could beat the Crawler without actually killing her brother, she tried to kick him once more. He was ready for her and caught her ankle, jerking sharply upwards to make her fall over.

Agony speared through Victoria’s spine as she hit the ground, earning a yelp of pain. She was barely able to keep her head from colliding with the cobblestones. He’d followed her downward movement, though, and she brought up her other foot. It made an unhealthy noise as it struck Logan’s body’s shoulder. As he was propelled backwards, she struggled blearily to her feet. Her ankle was pure, throbbing agony that seemed to pulse its way to her head, made her vision oddly bright and fuzzy for the briefest of seconds. Victoria tried in vain to clear it as the monster wearing her brother’s skin also resumed his feet.

It wouldn’t be long now, some part of her mind realised, before the battle would end. It had been a short fight, but Victoria had been fighting the Crawler’s minions for the last hour and the Crawler itself was weak from the energy his journey had cost. They were depleting their stamina too fast. Time was short. But Victoria had also come to fully realise that she couldn’t remove the Crawler from her brother without killing Logan in the process. She closed her eyes a brief moment to steady herself. _Yes_. This was how it was meant to be.

“Have you realised it yet?” he asked like a lover about to slit his one love’s throat. “Your bone gleam in an affront to us. You shall re-join the Void as you so fear.”

Victoria gave him a grim smile, trying to silently figure out just how quickly she could retrieve her fallen knives from the ground. “I fear neither Death nor the Void.”

She dove for the blades, rolling into a crouch with the twin blades at the ready. The Crawler had made her brother vanish once more. Victoria’s frown deepened in frustration. She simply wasn’t fast enough.

Something seemed to click in place in her brain. _Speed_ …. Speed was something she had gotten better at as she had become a better Skill-user. Since Skill, like Will, was a more intellectual ability—Victoria mentally berated herself. _Of course! Stupid, foolish, idiot of a girl! That’s it!_ She wasn’t _thinking_ like a Hero, so she was unable to _fight_ like one. _Think, relax, use your instincts. What do your instincts say?_

Not moving from her crouch, Victoria closed her brown eyes. She could hear wind and far-off fighting. Ben and Walter seemed to be struggling with something by the faintly humming barrier. A rock stabbed into her knees as the ground vibrated faintly with explosions in other parts of the city. She could smell blood and gunpowder and fire in the air.

Victoria felt the shift in air pressure as it happened. She didn’t need to look back to know he was behind her, and, just as he was about to drive his sword into her spine, she jerked backwards and buried her blade deep into his knee.

There were no screams. When she turned, his form flickered instead. For a split second, she saw the real Logan, his face creased in agony, before the Crawler’s wraith-like aura snapped back into place over him. _Do it quickly_. As he wrenched the blade from Logan’s knee, Victoria lunged forward with the other blade at the ready. He vanished just before she reached him, appearing behind her to kick her remaining dagger from her hands.

They were both weaponless, now. Victoria, too angry to hear anything the Crawler was taunting, summoned her Will. Lightning and flame coursed over her hands and she lobbed the spells at him. Victoria had noticed in Aurora that the Crawler had an adverse reaction to fire and, though her spells had been relatively weak, she was pleased it still held true. Logan’s body stayed down much longer than previously.

Victoria made for where her hammer had fallen from its harness. It was heavier than usual, but the grip was comforting as she stood there, waiting. She barely had a chance to shift into a fighting stance as he threw himself at her. _I’m sorry, Logan._ It happened in the blink of an eye. The Crawler was before her, lashing out and driving his sword into her side. Just as the blade bit into her flesh, she swung her hammer; a strange burst of light distracted her and caused her swing to go low. The hammer had missed his head, only to crush the entire left side of his lower torso.

The unnatural darkness of the world faded, to be replaced with a red-tinged dusk. The sentient statues crumbled to dust, leaving those who had fought for Albion baffled. Logan shuddered and gasped, the Crawler’s aura vanishing from him completely. He teetered slightly…and then he fell.

“ _Logan!_ ”

Victoria cast aside her hammer and threw herself down beside him. Gently, she lifted his head and pulled him closer to her.

“Logan,” she said again, panicking. Victoria knew very little about healing wounds, but even she could see that this wound was beyond _bad_. Beyond anything most people could heal.

“That was close,” Logan murmured, his voice aggrieved and thin. He reached out as if to touch where his sister had been stabbed, but drew back in pain.

Victoria didn’t even feel her wound. “Logan, we need to get you back to the castle. There’s—there’s nurses, healers, there. We can get you fixed. We—”

“No,” her brother said as forcefully as he could.

Tears burned in her eyes and Victoria had to look away. The world had blurred and she tried to stare at a strange white blur lurking in an alley instead. It was a futile attempt, though, for her tears were flowing too freely to stop.

“You must let me go,” he went on heedlessly.

“ _No_. You said that to choose between life and death was the greatest of all powers. Well, I choose life. _Your_ life. _Damn it, Logan_. You’re the only blood I have left!”

“Which is why you must let me go. For Albion’s sake.”

He said the words so reasonably and, yet, they were agony. Her dear, misguided, genius big brother…how could she…?

“Do not cry, sister,” Logan told her, usually stern face creased with concern for her. “This is…my legacy.” _My gift to you_. He paused to draw in a heavy breath. “Mother and father would be so proud of you to see what you have become.”

“Funny,” she sniffled, “I think they would be disgusted with what I’ve done to you.”

She wiped at her tears once more, starting when Logan took her hand. He urged her closer, pulling slightly, and whispered into her ear. Victoria jerked backwards to stare at him in a mix of horror and confusion. What did he—?

“Victoria?” Logan whispered, drawing her attention back to him. “Thank you.”

His words were so faint that Walter and Ben’s approaching footsteps nearly masked them, but they still reverberated through her head. Before she could speak again, her brother grew still, drawing one last breath.

Logan was dead.

And the sun finished setting over Albion.

~ * ~

He stood in his little alleyway, watching the girl crying in the street with a meditative calm. The blonde soldier—Ben Finn, was it?—tried to get her to move away, but, when Victoria refused to let him, he knelt down beside her, wrapping a protective arm around the Princess and speaking to her in a quiet tone. Together, Finn and the ever-paternal Sir Walter guided her away from her dead brother’s body as several soldiers came to return their fallen King to the castle. Reaver’s eyes narrowed further the longer he watched them, and he followed against his better judgment.

He’d abandoned Page and Bowerstone Industrial shortly after the explosion had rocked the city. It was such a puerile thing to be worried about the girl—and he _wasn’t_ , he assured himself—but he wasn’t about to let anyone kill her but himself. They’d be dead before they could try. And yet, he’d still gone to see; the twin demons of shame and fury flaring in his gut and making him run all the more faster.

Now, as he followed the trio to the castle, the feelings returned full force.

Victoria had been so wrapped up in her revolution and in _winning_ against Logan…and she’d just managed to string him along. He was furious with himself. Furious with how fascinated he’d been with her every struggle and with how much she reminded him of _his great love_. He’d been so wrapped up in something that was shiny and new, different…he’d not seen the truth. And the truth was: she’d used him just as much, if not more so, than he had used her.

It was maddening. (And now he’d get the _pleasure_ of telling Kitten she’d been right all along.)

At least now he _knew_ this was just a superficial infatuation. He didn’t _really_ care about her. The thought calmed Reaver slightly. He knew better than to think he had _loved_ her— _that_ he knew he was incapable of—but he was pleased to have a reason for this disturbing behaviour. After all…he could be sure that she neither felt like this nor did she care what he felt—or thought he felt.

Reaver pointedly ignored the fact that he was stalking the trio’s steps.

In the dusk, it was easy to meld into the shadows like the thief he was. He’d heard Sir Walter mention taking the soon-to-be Queen to the castle’s hospital and Reaver changed directions, heading down an even darker side street. All those years working at sea came to good use in scaling the castle’s outer walls and there were no guards on patrol—everyone having been stationed in the city proper—to stop him.

Still, he was glad for his intimate knowledge of the castle for it helped him to find the hospital’s balcony quickly. Avo knew he wasn’t about to ask for, of all things, directions. Wouldn’t want the Princess to have a head start, after all.

He watched as Finn and Sir Walter entrusted Victoria to a matronly nurse. As the old woman ushered the two soldiers from the room and fretted over the younger girl, Reaver pondered his options briefly. When they had been united against Logan, it had been fairly simple: they fought, they ignored each other, they came to terms, and, at the end, they would have a delightful romp between the sheets before sorting everything out. Now things were, quite possibly, different.

She’d never accepted blatant charm and he wasn’t anywhere near the mood to attempt sympathy. With her “delicate female emotions”—Reaver mentally scoffed at the phrase, eternally baffled by why the newsprint still bothered to use the phrase—off kilter, indubitably she would respond to bluntness and cruelty with ice and violence.

He felt his emotions and doubts fall away as he came to a decision and his usual smirking, self-satisfied façade slid into place. As the nurse left Victoria alone with her grief, Reaver leaned against the balcony’s doorframe as if he’d been there all week.

“My, my, I see what all my good advice has become. After all the times I’ve warned you that sulking does _not_ suit your countenance, here you are…sulking,” he drawled, his voice mellifluous and teasingly light. _Anger_ would snap her out of this most pathetic mood…most likely.

Victoria’s head snapped up; anger, fear, horror, and embarrassment swirled in her eyes before her fury took centre stage.

“Do you have no respect for anyone’s grief?” she hissed at him, her hands balling on the sheets of the bed she was occupying.

Reaver tilted his head lazily.  “Hmm, not in particular, _ma belle_.” When she began to snap at him, he added, “No, I merely thought I would grace you with my grandiose—in _your words_ , may I remind you—presence. Are we feeling _amazed_ yet?”

“Give me a second to think of an appropriate response, you wouldn’t appreciate the one that just came to mind.”

He tsked at her. “How _catty_ you are, Princess. You continuously wound me.”

“Don’t worry, Reaver,” she retorted wryly. “You’re immortal; you’ll heal. Now _please_ …can’t you leave me be?”

There was an entirely different question in her voice and Reaver sat down gracefully beside her in response to it.

 _“The pair of you will destroy one another,”_ Theresa had warned him secretly after informing them about the Crawler. _“At the first chance you receive, abandon her. I will_ not _let her fall as you have. Leave her.”_

His instincts were telling him much the same, but he knew better. He would let this obsession play out and be rid of the girl.

Still. Something felt…out of place. Seeing her like this…it...it wasn’t right. Maybe, just maybe, he’d give her a week to get her head back in the game. Just one week. Then it would begin and one of them would end up ruined.

“Do you want me to stay?”

“For how long?”

“Why, for as long as it takes, of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One. Chapter. Left. ಠ_ಠ  
> (And still nothing is done. That's okay, though, right? It'll be done soon...I hope.)


	27. The End?

Victoria knelt in the dewy grass, the skirt of her opulent black gown flowing over the ground around her. She felt nothing. The sea breeze sweeping over her and the damp grass pressing into her knees seemed non-existent, as were the monk, Jasper, and Walter. She was in shock and nothing seemed to exist but for the ornate golden casket before her.

She just couldn’t believe Logan was dead.  For the past week she kept expecting to see him around the castle. When she’d been coronated, she had automatically searched the crowd for him. Every time she did so, she’d remember what had happened and the memory would hit her in the stomach like a sledgehammer. It was torment.

She half wondered if it would be a reprieve if she joined Logan.

 _You killed him_ , a voice in her head whispered. _You_ deserve _death. Perhaps you should join him. Not that he would ever forgive you if you did._

 _Shut up!_ she mentally shrieked at the voice. _Shut up and don’t say things like that._

Logan would have wanted her to go on, that much she knew. Victoria just felt so…lost. And angry. Guilty. It was the reason she had avoided people in the last week. The reason she’d not yet held court nor had she attended her own coronation ball. Neither had she attended her brother’s public memorial. She’d not even gone out onto the castle’s grounds! Others wouldn’t understand. Albion just saw him as a vanquished tyrant and Victoria could only see him as her big brother.

That, if anything, made it even more difficult to believe he was dead.

And, yet, the coffin before her was indeed real; its golden filigree sparkling brightly in the cold autumn sunlight. She’d seen her brother within it that very morning. He was gone…and it would be a long time before the young Queen would be able to accept it.

The world froze. Birds stopped in mid-air and the droning sound of the monk’s voice abruptly quieted. It was like she had suddenly been plunged into a faded charcoal drawing—even the world itself had turned a dreary grey.

“What have you come to ask of me _now_ , Theresa?” Victoria asked emotionlessly before slowly turning to look at the newly appeared blind woman.

Theresa was smiling her usual sad, all-knowing smile. “Congratulations, Hero. This is what the world would have looked like had the Crawler succeeded,” she said, gesturing to the frozen world around her. “Grey; bereft of colour…and of life. It is because of your actions that Albion is safe.”

“And my brother: dead,” Victoria spat venomously, too tired to cry or scream.

“Logan’s sacrifice displayed the nobility and care for both you and this country that he did not display in life,” the seeress replied, her smile beginning to fade slightly. “It is something to be proud of, not angry about.”

“I _am_ proud,” Victoria said, eyes narrowing.

 _She doesn’t understand_ , the little voice hissed. _She never will. Greedy. Selfish. She has orchestrate_ d everything _…and she is too blind to See the truth before her. What do you hope to gain from listening to such a powerless woman?_

The Queen sighed, and, pushing away the little voice, added, “But Logan and everyone else who died had no need to. Their deaths could have been prevented.”

It was nigh impossible to keep the accusation from her voice. If Theresa had told her, or her brother, everything from the start, she was certain everything would have worked out much better. Those who died might have lived. She and Reaver might not have been forced into such a deranged union. Walter might have been in better health.

“The past cannot be changed, you above all know that. What happened was set in motion by Fate and those living long ago. Don’t dwell on what could have been, Hero. The future is uncertain enough without being trapped by the past.”

“And what of _my_ future?” Victoria couldn’t help but ask, wondering if she was doomed to be led blindly into horrific events forever.

Theresa smiled mischievously. “That is not for now. I’m certain we shall meet again one day, Victoria.”

And, with that, Theresa vanished. The world righted itself. Victoria returned her gaze to Logan’s kist, unsure what she ought to feel; everything was still taking a while to process.

A small squad of the Honour Guard fired off their gun salute for their fallen King, though most of them didn’t seem all that interested in what they were doing. The coffin was carried into the family mausoleum, and then, as if she’d woken from some terrible dream, it was suddenly over.

When she didn’t move to get up after several minutes, Walter put a gentle hand on her shoulder and, together, he and Jasper guided her up to the castle. Any other day, and she would have been offended at them thinking she was so fragile. They didn’t say anything, though; maintaining their vigil until they were forced to part ways. As Walter trudged off to welcome the court back for their first meeting since Logan’s death, Jasper showed Victoria up to her rooms. She vaguely wondered how he knew she wanted to be alone for a while.

The door clicked shut behind them, encasing them in silence. Victoria, shakily, slumped into her vanity’s seat.

“Why does everyone I love die, Jasper?” she whispered, almost pleading with him to make things right. Elliot, Logan, her parents…maybe her living hadn’t been a victory; maybe it was just some strange tragedy that had yet to unfold. Maybe the truth was that she could never love anybody without destroying them.

Her fingers clenched on the polished stone of her vanity’s counter, slightly crumpling the papers atop it: a pair of unopened letters each bearing Reaver’s seal, an old newspaper, and some royal documents being the only ones of note. The room suddenly felt claustrophobic and she wished she’d not already used up all of her tears.

As if sensing his mistress’s distress, Nero trotted over to her from the bed and gently nudged her hand with his nose. He looked at her with such loving concern and Victoria stroked his fur as if he were a rope holding her above water. In a way, perhaps he was.

Jasper, abandoning formality for once, knelt down before her. “I’m afraid, madam, that I cannot answer _why_. The ones we love and lose always seem much too _alive_ for death. All I know is that there _is_ some purpose behind it. The ones we love never _truly_ leave us.”

“Do you think so?”

“I know so,” Jasper replied with a sorrowful smile. “Their memory lives on to push us and comfort us. I find, in times of stress, that it can both ground and inspire one most admirably. As long as you remember them, they and their legacy will survive.” He stood up and retrieved a small-ish box from atop her dresser. Jasper carefully removed her crown from it and set it atop her head. “Fear not, Your Majesty; everything will be for the better soon enough.”

Victoria took a deep breath to steady herself. The weight of the crown was more emotional than physical, but it made it that more real all that was about to change. Funny, she thought, that her first real political challenge as Queen was coming from Reaver. _Some things never change._

Nero barked slightly, tail wagging so hard his entire body was wiggling in enthusiasm. His bark was cheerful as if he agreed with Jasper. It filled her with hope that, just maybe, she could do this.

_You hope so, child, don’t you?_

Victoria looked into her vanity mirror, smile slowly growing secretive. Her reflection was that of a wraith: black and smoky, her form seemed whipped by endless high winds as glowing red eyes glared back at her. It looked much as Logan had just before his death. Victoria gave it a significant look, knowing she was the only one who could see it. And, very slowly, the Crawler smirked back.

Staring into those red eyes, Victoria suddenly felt very… _peaceful_. “You know what Jasper?”

“What, madam?”

“You’re right. Everything _is_ going to be alright.”

**End?**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -awkwardly shuffles in- It appears we've reached the end. For now. For anyone that doesn't know, Shattered Memories is basically MoI's prequel and will eventually tie into the beginning of MoI, so it might be of interest if you haven't read it. A Den of Vipers, which is a tie in/sequel thing, will be posted...as soon as it's ready. I really don't want to have to stop in the middle of posting for rewrites, which is the only reason I'm not posting a chapter today. It should be ready soon. =) If you want to keep an eye on DoV's progress, feel free to check my eta tag on Tumblr. I update those monthly (though I'm tempted to just have a page that I update daily for those who are really anxious to see what's done). Also on Tumblr, feel free to check my Fable tag for random oneshots! I posted one the other day for Reaver and Victoria and some of you might enjoy it (is this bribery thing working? Should I find a way to sweeten the pot or something? Hmm). I hope all of you are having a great holiday/weekend and have a great rest of the year! Thank you so much for all your support! =D Y'all are incredible. See you soon. -waves-


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